


Rare Gems

by wombuttress



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Bad Matchmaking, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Matchmaking, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2018-11-02 16:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 29,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10948644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: Send me a rarepair, I'll write your rarepair.Round One Author's Recs:6. Sebastian/Anders - revelation10. Cole/Iron Bull - picnic13. Alistair/Morrigan - ritual16. Fenris/Krem - hand holding for tough guys18. Leliana/Josephine - late nights20. Sera/Leliana - sleep24. Fenris/Zevran - striking25. fTrevelyan/Celene - careful politicking30. Bethany/Leliana - plenty of time31. Anders/Isabela - promise32. Fenris/Merrill - matchmadeRound Two33. Sigrun/Velanna - gardens





	1. Marian/Isabela/Merrill

**Author's Note:**

> Rules:  
> 1\. Guaranteed fill, eventually  
> 2\. Prompts encouraged, but no promises.  
> 3\. Fills will be flash fiction, ~500-1000 words.  
> 4\. Request as many times as you like.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for galacticcorvid on tumblr

Hawke knew something was up when she returned from the week-long journey to Sundermount with Varric and the two glowing annoyances to find the manor densely filled with black smoke.

Well, didn't that just figure, she thought, standing in the foyer with her fists on her hips, mud and rainwater slowly dripping off her armor and onto the floor, which was currently the only part of the inside of her home which she could see. Coughing, she fought her way into the kitchen.

The kitchen was no longer quite so much a kitchen anymore as a disaster zone. Hawke had seen worse, but usually at the Bone Pit and not in her home. Merrill stood with her hands guiltily over her mouth in front of a roiling, blackened vaguely box-like _something._ Isabela sat on the counter, her booted legs drawn up to her chest as she silently shook with laughter.

Marian looked between her girlfriend, to her other girlfriend, and back. "So," she said. "Remodeling, are we? Now, Merrill, you live here too, so of course it is at your discretion how you like the kitchen decorated, but I really prefer you tell me first. What will Bodahn think?"

Merrill squealed, covering her eyes. "I'm sorry, Hawke! I didn't mean to! I was just curious!"

Isabela hopped down from the counter and enveloped Merrill in a dramatic embrace. "She was just curious, Hawke!"

"About _what?"_

"Well," Merrill said, wringing her hands, peeking out from under the voluminous mass of Isabela's hair. "You see, while you were gone, this door-to-door dwarven salesman came by, and he showed all of his marvelous wares. And Bodahn turned his nose right up at them, said they were cheap garbage, but--but I thought they were interesting! And there was this one device, this charming little box with all these runes in it that can heat up your food when it's gone cold, it had these charming little buttons with numbers on them and everything, and--"

"And of course I had to buy it for her!" Isabela interjected. "What's the point of having all this stolen gold if I never spend it on anything for our dear, sweet, precious Merrill?"

"And it blew up," Hawke surmised.

"No! Well, not at first," Merrill said. "It worked fine for the first few days! And it beeped at me, Hawke. I just thought that was cute, I liked it."

"So what happened here?" Hawke said, mystified.

"We-ell," said Isabela, "That dwarven merchant _might_ have mentioned that you aren't supposed to put metal in it."

"But I didn't remember! I was distracted by playing with it! Oh, I'm sorry, I'm such a foolish scatterbrain..."

Hawke raised her eyebrow at Isabela. "And you didn't think to tell her not to put metal into the dwarven rune box?"

Isabela shrugged. "I wanted to see what would happen."

"Sorry!" Merrill squeaked again.

Hawke surveyed the mess again. She sighed. "You couldn't have at least waited for me to get back before blowing things up? You know how much I like blowing things up."

Isabela laced her arms around Hawke's neck and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek. "We can go and blow something up tonight, if you like. Or I can blow something else of yours."

"Well," Hawke huffed, wrapping her arms around both her lovers waists. "I suppose we have to do _something_ while I get someone to restore Orana's kitchen to livable conditions."


	2. Alistair/Male Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for gayknight on tumblr

"You know, there's really something about him," Alistair said to the Chantry sister. As far as women went, she was a lot nicer than Morrigan, and as a result his best experience with women so far. "He's just so confident. I wish I could be that confident."

"You'll get there in time," Leliana assured. "You have your own skills, your own strengths, I am sure."

"Well, sure," Alistair said. "But there's something _special_ about him, isn't there? You don't meet a man like that every day."

"True," said Leliana. "I hope he will be our salvation."

"Right, salvation. Yeah," Alistair said vaguely. "All that...Warden...stuff." He sighed and stared moodily off into the distance. "Well, if anyone can, it'd be him, right?"

\--

"You can just _tell_ he's noble-born from the way he holds himself," Alistair said to Leliana. "He's so noble. I normally don't put much stock in that sort of thing, but, just look at him! I've got half royal blood, but you'd never tell it from looking at me. I'm more of a stinky dog man. I'll bet you can tell that I was raised in a kennel, ha ha."

Leliana's gaze slowly slid over to the Warden, who was currently slouching over his maul, picking his nose. During the five seconds Leliana observed him, he also scratched his arse twice.

"Right," she said. "Ferelden noble bearing. I think I see it."

"Right?" Alistair leaned his cheek on his fist. "It's got to be the nose. What a profile."

\--

"He's got nice muscles, though, hasn't he?" Alistair commented. "Nicer than most men's. Wish mine looked like that."

Leliana groaned and rolled over. "Alistair, go to sleep."

"Right. Sorry."

A momentary pause.

"Do you think his hair's as soft as it looks?"

Leliana pressed the pillow over her ears.

\--

"And here's another thing I don't like about Zevran," Alistair fumed to Leliana, walking a few paces behind their leader and their newest recruit. "The way he's always draping himself all over _him_. Who does Zevran think he is?"

Leliana thought about it. "I think he is a desperate man, looking to ingratiate himself with the one who holds the power of life and death over him."

Alistair sputtered. "Well, does he _have_ to?"

"Perhaps he feels that he does," she suggested.

Alistair's fists clenched. "Look at them. Making _eyes_ at each other. Doesn't he see he's being taken in by a lying murderer?"

"I think he sees that perfectly well," Leliana said. "I think he's just lonely."

"Lonely?!" Alistair squawked. "What's he lonely for? He's got me! _I'm_ his best friend!"

"He wants a different kind of company," Leliana said gently. "You know. The company of _men."_

"So?" Alistair said. "Am I not a man?"

"The carnal kind of company, Alistair!"

"....Oh." Alistair rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, don't I feel stupid now."

Leliana patted his upper arm. "Don't worry. It happens to all of us. You should have seen me the first time I really saw a pretty girl. Brains fell right out of my ears."

"I just didn't think that men...and other men...well, sure, growing up as a Templar recruit, all the boys got curious, and tried things out. But they said we'd grow out of it," Alistair babbled. "Not that I did any of that, personally. The other boys didn't like me much."

Leliana just kept patting his arm, nodding patiently.

\--

"Shame about you and our Warden," Alistair said to Zevran.

"A shame about what, praytell?" Zevran said, raising a pale brow.

"I was under the impression your relationship had ended."

"Relationship? My dear Grey Warden, you were sorely mistaken if you believed the arrangement to be of _that_ nature."

"Oh. Well, good." Alistair coughed. "Just because, you and him are so different. It would never have worked out."

"And why is that?"

"It just seems to me that he'd be better off with someone who really understands him. Someone who understands loss like he does. Another Ferelden. Another warrior."

"Another Grey Warden?" Zevran suggested.

"Right, exactly, another Grey Warden," Alistair said. "Not that there's many left in Ferelden..."

Leliana and Zevran shared a sidelong glance.

"Alistair," the Warden's booming voice carried from ahead. "Can you come help me with something?"

Alistair picked up the pace and disappeared over the next hill. "When do you suppose he will realize?" Leliana muttered.

"Probably around the time the Warden proposes marriage," Zevran replied. "You should have heard him in my tent. Just would not cease his prattle about the boy. Alistair this, Alistair that. It was most tiresome. I couldn't take it anymore. He should pursue what his heart truly wants and not waste my time."

The sound of enthusiastic conversation and laughter carried from ahead on the road. Leliana thought she saw a subtle arse-grab.

"Fools," Leliana said.

"Fools," Zevran agreed.


	3. Sigrun/Female Aeducan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for jaspxr on tumblr

"Okay, that's it! I'm sorry, but I can't take it anymore!"

Aeducan stared at Sigrun with big blue eyes, completely mystified. "Too much?" she said, gesturing to the warhorse whose reins she held. It was pure white with a silvery mane, adorned with a golden bridle and a gem-encrusted saddle. "Or, do you not like horses? Totally understandable! They're kind of terrifying, aren't they? I just figured since you like surface stuff so much, and I think horses are supposed to be romantic animals--"

"Too much?" Sigrun pulled at her pigtails. "Yes! Yes, it's too much! I can't even mount that thing, let alone ride it." The horse didn't seem particularly troubled by the insult. Sigrun covered her eyes with her hands. "I can't handle it anymore."

"Oh." Aeducan blinked at the grass, and scratched her head. "But you always liked my gifts."

"I did like them. I still do. It's not the gifts that's the problem."

"Then what's the problem?" Aeducan urged.

"I...look." Sigrun swallowed. "I could barely manage it when you gave me a _snowglobe._ You were always so nice to me, even when we were just friends."

"Of course I was nice to you," Aeducan said. "You're a wonderful person. You deserve everyone being as nice to you as possible, all of the time. It's a crime that you don't think you're worthy of people being nice to you."

Sigrun looked down. "Well, my feelings are still my feelings. I can't get rid of them that easy. And snowglobes and soaps on ropes was _then._ Now I have more silk dresses and jewels than I'll ever be able to wear--I mean, Wardens don't really have parties! And somehow I just don't think the darkspawn would appreciate the delicacies of high fashion. And all these fancy battleaxes and armor sets--agh, they're lovely, but they're just not me. I'm not the kind of girl to go around swinging pearl-inlay axes in gem-encrusted armor. It's...ridiculous."

"I thought you looked nice."

"That's not the point! I can't even go to the market without you buying me everything I so much as glance at."

"Are you worried about me spending too much on you?" Aeducan said. "Because you really don't have to worry about that. I'm a the Warden-Commander, remember? And the Arlessa. And a Paragon. Not to mention the regular payments I get from Bhelen, in his unending gratitude. The point being, I have plenty of gold, and one gem-encrusted breastplate or ten won't change that."

"That's the problem," Sigrun blurted. "That's exactly the problem."

Aeducan was becoming more confused by the moment. She tried not to let her upset show. "That I'm rich?"

"That you're a princess! And the Commander, and the Arlessa, and a Paragon, and all of these things. You are _so_ remarkable. They're going to be singing about you for a thousand years. Meanwhile, my name isn't even recorded in the Shaperate. I might as well be nothing."

Aeducan slapped her forehead. "The Shaperate! Of course! I forgot about that. I'm so rarely in Orzammar these days. Listen, next time we visit, I'll go and tell the Shaper to record you. Of course you should be remembered by the Stone. How thoughtless of me to forget. I'll--"

"Listen." Sigrun took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. "You're still not getting it."

"Then explain to me. Please."

"You, Paragon princess," Sigrun said slowly. "Me, casteless filth. What are you even _doing_ with me?"

"I thought it was fairly obvious that I was trying to court you?" Aeducan said.

" _I_ thought you were just...I don't know, joking. Having a bit of fun. I was having fun too, at first. But you're getting so serious. It's scaring me. You know there's no possible way the two of us could really ever..."

"I don't see why not," Aeducan retorted. "I'm not royal anymore, and you're not casteless. We're both just surface dwarves. We're equals, Sigrun. I mean it."

Sigrun stared a long moment, then grinned dryly. "That would carry a lot more weight if you weren't literally my superior officer."

"And of _course_ I'm serious. I was serious from the moment I saw you."

Sigrun took a step back, spooked.

"Does that change things?"

"Not really," Sigrun admitted. She stepped further away, turning. Aeducan had to fight to keep from moving closer. "Look," she said, hesitating. "Even if we weren't basically two completely different species of dwarf, even if you were serious, even if I wasn't a dead woman and if we weren't both cursed with Blight anyway...you can't build a relationship on elaborate gifts. Not that I've been in many, but I don't think expensive surface animals can replace just talking to each other."

The animal in question had wandered away down the hill and was grazing peacefully.

"So," Sigrun went on. "If we're really going to do...this...whatever _this_ is....and I guess I can't dissuade you? Convince you I'm not worth your time?"

"Nope," Aeducan said.

"Well, then...seriously, you can stop buying me stuff. You don't need to _court_ me. If we're just two surface dwarves, then let's be that."

Aeducan approached and, hesitantly, took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "Okay. We can be that." She paused. "How about we go for a walk in the woods? I'll point to all the plants that I like. You'll point to all the plants that you like. We'll smell all the dirt and the flowers. We can watch a sunset and talk. It'll be nice."

"Yeah," said Sigrun, squeezing her hand. "It'll be nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the aeducan in this one is my Brunhilde (though you are free to imagine any aeducan), she looks like [this](http://gayspaceart.tumblr.com/post/159281605228/brunhilde-aeducan-is-a-gorgeous-boisterous-opera)


	4. Varric/Male Cadash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for alistairsboyfriend on tumblr, xoxo666 on ao3

Cadash watched Varric on the balcony, wringing his hands.

Stone, he had to say _something._

Eventually, unable to take the tension anymore, Cadash approached, leaning on the balcony railing. Varric didn't much react. Cadash looked at him, resisting the urge to bite his lip, which would have been too obvious, too visible. Varric looked so different when he was grieving. Cadash had seen Varric serious, had seen him melancholy, had seen him regretful, but mostly he had seen him laughing and talking and  joyously firing his crossbow.

This Varric looked dead.

After too many painful moments of no response, Cadash coughed.

"Look," he said, "I'm sorry."

It was his fault, he couldn't help but feel. Though Hawke had chosen his fate himself, it was Cadash who had allowed him to do so. The death of Varric's friend was on _his_ shoulders.

Stone, the last thing he'd ever wanted to do was hurt Varric, and yet, here he was.

"Sorry?" Varric gave a dry chuckle. "What do you have to be sorry for? It wasn't _you_ that was the reckless, self-sacrificing, fucking _idiot."_

Cadash winced at the bitterness in his voice. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out a hand to Varric's shoulder. Varric did not draw away, but neither did he lean in close. Cadash's pulse picked up.

"You know," Varric said before Cadash could find a new and exciting way to put a foot in his mouth, "I don't get it. You share upward a decade with someone, and they decide to just up and leave. Just like that. Poof. Gone. Like you never mattered at all."

"I'm sorry," Cadash said again. "I know how difficult it can be to lose a friend."

"Friend?" Varric laughed hollowly, and moved away from Cadash's touch to face him head on. "Hawke and I were a bit more than just friends, you know. _That's_ something I never put in the story. It was private, you know? People didn't need to know about it. That....that was personal. That was just for us." He gave the worst smile Cadash had ever seen. "And now he's gone, so. I guess it's not personal anymore, huh?"

Cadash flushed bright red, mortified, more mortified than the incident with the bronto and the rock pie. All this time, nursing this ridiculous crush, chasing after Varric with gifts of fine new coats and upgrades for his crossbow, hoping he would recognize and appreciate what was in front of him...when all along, he'd _had_ a partner. Had he even noticed Cadash's clumsy flirtations? Or, worse, had he noticed them, and laughed about them in his letters to Hawke?

Look at him. Jealous of a dead man. Being mocked in Varric's personal correspondence was the least he deserved.

"I don't know what to say," Cadash managed eventually.

Varric turned guiltily away, back to the balcony. "Nah, you don't have to say anything." He heaved a great sigh. "I'm sorry, Your Inquisuitorialness. I shouldn't be dumping all this on you. This is definitely a _me_ problem."

"It shouldn't have to be," Cadash blurted. "You have friends here, Varric. Not the least of which is me. If there's anything you need, _anything_ I can do for you..." Cadash trailed off. Was he being disgusting? Stone, he was, wasn't he?

All out of words, Cadash hesitated for only a moment, and then flung his arms around Varric. To his shock, the other dwarf responded, hugging him tight. Cadash was taller, just barely, just enough to put his chin on Varric's bent head. He was solid and warm in Cadash's arms, and his arms were strong, and he did not let go. The moments dragged on, and Varric did not push him away, did not move away himself. He only dug his blunt fingernails into the leather of Cadash's jerkin and shook with unshed tears, once, twice, three times--until he was sobbing silently into Cadash's shoulder, shaking like a leaf.

It seemed a long time that they stood outside in the harsh winds of the Skyhold balcony, before Varric's grip so much as loosened. Cadash reluctantly let him go.

"Thanks," Varric said hoarsely, rubbing at his eyes.

"Any time," Cadash said. "Do you...want me to leave?"

"It might be for the best. It's not gonna be real pretty out here for the next couple hours."

"Right. Yes. Of course. I'm sorry to intrude."

"Don't be. I needed that. I definitely needed that."

Cadash tried for a hesitant smile. "Well...if you need anything--and I really mean anything--you know where to find me."

"Sure. Sure I do."

Cadash began to turn to go, feeling his overstayed welcome in Varric's private space. He hesitated, then spoke. "You know, people care about you, Varric. At least, I certainly do. There's not that many other dwarves here--other outcasts like me. Though Stone knows you're a better surfacer than I am."

Varric chuckled dryly, and nearly sounded like his own self. "You think being the head religious figure of the strongest military in Thedas is something to sneeze at?"

"You know what I mean." Cadash flushed again, looking down. "I'm just saying...you ever need something from me, anything--" _Like a rebound,_ some dark and shameful part of Cadash piped up, "Well, consider it yours."

Varric met his eyes again, warm and sad and nearly infinite. "You know," he said slowly, "I think I really might."


	5. Female Mage Hawke/Meredith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know. just trust me.  
> for aziethe on ao3!

"Damn," Hawke said, her neck swiveling nearly all the way around. "What a fox."

Carver groaned."Quit being such a useless lesbian and let's go," he snapped. "We have cash to raise."

"Yeah, yeah," his sister said absently, still staring. "I'm just saying...damn!"

He wasn't going to look, Carver told himself. He was _not_ going to look. He knew about his sister's taste in women and he knew for a fact that he would regret looking.

He looked.

His jaw dropped open with a soft _plop,_ and it was several seconds before he could get it to go back up again.

"The Knight-Commander?!" he whisper-screamed.

"I know who she is," Hawke said.

"She! Knight! Commander!"

"She has nice hair," Hawke said defensively. "And a woman in armor...woof."

"You! Apostate! Mage!"

Hawke punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Yeah, say that a little louder for all the Templars that didn't hear you across town."

"You need to be stopped," Carver lamented.

Hawke whistled innocently and kept on walking. "I like older women! And no, it is _not_ because of my alleged latent mommy issues, so don't even start."

"I wasn't going to. But now that you mention it..."

"Fuck off, little brother."

\--

"Okay, fuck, marry, kill," Varric said with a smirk. "The Knight-Commander, the Grand Cleric, and the First Chanter."

"Easy," Hawke boasted. "Kill Elthina. She's a bitch. Marry Orsino--he seems like  _such_ marriage material, honestly. And," Hawke grinned, "Fuck the  _living shit_ out of Meredith."

The Wicked Grace group devolved into chaos. Fenris started laughing. Anders' sensibilities were so offended he started glowing. Merrill turned bright red, as though she vaguely agreed. Isabela wooped, because she  _definitely_ agreed. Varric took out a sheaf of papers from his jacket and started feverishly scribbling.

"Oh, I don't know," Isabela said. "I think Orsino would be a good lay. I mean, that lithe body! Getting to take off those heavy robes! Like unwrapping a present!"

"But women in armor," Hawke insisted. " _Woo_ _f."_

"Ohohoh!" Varric said. "So it's not just for the sake of the game! You really do want to get up to some hanky panky with the Knight-Commander!"

Hawke shrugged, shameless. "You want it verbally? Alright. I want to fuck the Knight-Commander."

Anders groaned. "You're setting back mage rights by a hundred years."

"She's hot!"

"Is there even a woman under all that armor?" Merrill questioned seriously.

"Oh, there's a woman under there alright. A toned, powerful woman, who'd boss me around, and--"

"Stop!" yelled at least three people at once.

"You guys just can't handle the truth," Hawke said.

"I can't believe your taste," Aveline said.

"Exactly," Isabela said. "I'm right here, Hawke, and I'm starting to feel a bit offended."

"That," Aveline cut in, "would be called having _worse_ taste."

"As bad as the _Knight-Commander?"_ Anders cut in, before Aveline and Isabela could spin off into a fun (for them, and no one else) spat, again.

"Nope," Varric said.

"Never," Fenris agreed.

"Mm-mm," Merrill added.

"No way in hell," Isabela laughed.

Hawke cackled. "You'll see one day," she said. "You'll all see!"

\--

There were Qunari corpses everywhere, and Hawke was covered in blood, so circumstances could certainly have been more romantic, but that didn't mean she wasn't going to try.

"So," she said, sliding directly up to the Knight-Commander. "Knight-Commander Meredith. Can I call you Meredith?"

"No," said Meredith.

Varric, Aveline and Anders all groaned simultaneously. Anders covered his eyes with his hand. Aveline sighed.

"Thank you _endlessly_ for saving us, Meredith," Hawke said. "And may I just say that the burning fires of chaos throughout the city highlight your cheekbones marvelously?"

For once, the Knight-Commander looked speechless. "You may," she said, probably out of surprise more than anything else. "Although I do not see why--"

"What are you doing later?" Hawke cut in. "Surely you aren't busy _all_ the time."

Meredith stood straighter. "The city of Kirkwall _always_ needs my protection."

"Oh, surely not _all_ the time."

Hawke dropped a smile so simpering and flirtatious that her companions could feel its power from ten yards away.

Meredith shook her head. "Enough! We have business to be getting to. Come."

"If you insist," Hawke said, tramping after her.

("This needs an intervention," Anders said urgently to Varric. "Never mind the Qunari. This is the _real_ emergency."

"Just let her work through it, Blondie," Varric said soothingly, patting his forearm. "You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped.")

\--

The nice thing about being Champion, Hawke thought--besides all the accolades, and the fancy armor, and the inaccurate statue, and the fact that people just politely looked away when she did magic in public--was that Meredith was constantly calling her into her office for business.

Or at least she claimed it was business. It was Hawke's opinion that the Knight-Commander wanted something rather more.

She headed there now, whistling, her incredibly obvious mage's staff balanced on her shoulder. She shut the door behind her when she walked in.

Meredith briefly looked up as Hawke entered, swiftly completing her paperwork and rising. "Hawke," she said brusquely.

"Why, hellooo," Hawke said, hopping up onto the much larger woman's desk, draping herself across it and scattering papers all over the office. " _Meredith."_

The Knight-Commander stared flatly for several moments, and then crossed her arms. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Why," said Hawke, putting her chin on her armored fist, "whatever do you mean?"

Meredith sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Never mind," she growled. "I meant to discuss with you the apprehension of those blood mage apostates."

Well, Hawke thought, I'm sure as the Void not doing anything at all like that. "No progress on that front yet," Hawke said, as if there ever would be. She lowered her eyelids and smiled. "But are you sure there isn't anything... _else_ I can do for you?"

Meredith considered long and hard. "Get out of my office," she said eventually.

Hawke hopped off the desk and strolled out, blowing the Knight-Commander a kiss as she went.

Oh well, she thought cheerily on her way out of the Gallows. There was always tomorrow.

 


	6. Sebastian/Anders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for MY BELOVED GIRLFRIEND, WHOMST'D'VE I DEEPLY ADORE AND CHERISH, allegedgreywarden on tumblr and alleged_grey_warden on ao3, who submitted this pairing as a joke specifically to annoy me but now look where we are, kammy. now look where we are.

"I'll say one thing for the Rose," Isabela said, quaffing ale. "It's _much_ nicer than the Pearl back in Denerim. Kirkwall may be a shithole, but at least it's not as big a shithole as Ferelden."

"Hey," Hawke said. "That's offensive. I'm offended."

"It's true, though," Merrill said, patting Hawke on the forearm.

"Oh, it's completely true," Hawke agreed. "But I'm still offended. Where's your Fereldan pride, Merrill?"

"I must have left it behind during one of the times Fereldens forced my clan to flee for fear of our lives," Merrill said innocently, and sipped the expensive fruity drink Varric had bought her.

"I think I had mine beaten out of me by Templars," Anders added, not drinking anything, as his physical inability to get drunk made drinking not only expensive but also pointless.

"Well, Starkhaven's quite nice," Sebastian said, not drinking anything because of Andraste. "A bit murdery, but overall nice."

"How are the brothels, though?" Isabela questioned. "You can really tell the nature of a nation by the state of its brothels."

"Now, now," Varric chuckled. "I'm sure Choir Boy here would never stoop to anything so base."

"As a matter of fact," Sebastian said, "when I was a callow youth, full of sin and needfulness, I must admit I had...quite a good acquaintance with the brothels of Starkhaven. And of Wycome. And Ferelden."

"No!" Hawke gasped dramatically. "It can't be!"

"It's true," Sebastian said seriously. "I even had a...discount, at some of them." He was beginning to blush, "Well, the point is, Starkhaven's brothels were perfectly serviceable! Definitely better than the Pearl, anyway."

"You've been to the Pearl?" Isabela said, amused.

"On one occasion, yes," Sebastian admitted. "I was quite intoxicated during my visit. I can't say I remember much besides the mud and the smell of dog."

"That's Ferelden, alright," Hawke sighed. "I miss it."

"As I recall, our Anders had quite the good time at the Pearl back in the day." Isabela waggled her eyebrows. "You were so much more fun back then."

Anders groaned. "Must you tell that story _every_ time?"

"Yes," Isabela said gleefully. "Who wants to hear all the places where Anders has piercings?"

"No," Fenris said.

" _Had,"_ Anders insisted. "I sold those off ages ago for the clinic."

"See what I mean?" Isabela lamented. "No fun at all anymore."

Sebastian snapped his fingers. "You know what I do remember about the Pearl, though, now that I mention it? A young man. Must have been Western, with the bright hair and pale skin. Can scarcely remember anything about the encounter now, of course, but he was, well...quite incredible. I still think about it sometimes, in moments of weakness. Lanky, all those freckles..."

Anders blinked.

"Don't let Andraste hear you say that," Varric warned. "She'll think you're being unfaithful to her."

"Andraste is the bride of the Maker," Sebastian said staunchly. "I am merely her _servant._ I recall my wastrel past to remind myself that I am not like that any longer. I am a man of the Maker now."

"Tell us more about this mysterious boy, Sebastian," Isabela suggested. "Maybe we both fucked him!"

"I wa _s_ drunk," Sebastian said. "I just remember he did...something. Some kind of trick with electricity. Have no idea how he did it, but it was...wow."

Anders' face had slowly drained of all color.

"Maybe he was an apostate," Isabela said, her voice shaking slightly from suppressed laughter.

"Oh, hm." Sebastian scratched his head. "You know, you're probably right."

Anders suddenly got up, rattling the table.

"I have to organize my bandages," he said, slightly louder than necessary.

At this point, perhaps half the group had begun to have an inkling of what had occurred, simply from Anders' panicked expression.

"Did this mysterious boy have piercings?" Isabela asked, doubled over with laughter, banging her fist on the table.

"Quite a few," Sebastian said. "Some in places I didn't even know you could have piercings. I was impressed. And the sensation was just--"

"You know, Sebastian!" Isabela cackled. "I think we _did_ both fuck the same fellow!"

Anders' hand was already on the doorknob to the outside. He briefly glanced over his shoulder, as though checking for pursuit. He met eyes with Sebastian.

Sebastian stared at Anders.

Anders stared at Sebastian.

The effect was practically hypnotic. For a moment, they were frozen, caught in each other's stares.

Sebastian's arm moved mechanically to point at Anders. "You!" he gasped.

"No," Anders said, the spell breaking. He jiggled the broken doorknob, cursing under his breath as it refused to cooperate. "Not me."

"You were him!" Sebastian went on. "And you were a _mage?"_

"I shot lightning out of my fingers and you didn't realize I was a mage?" Anders snapped.

"I," Sebastian said, "Well," he added.

"Indeed," Anders muttered, and finally succeeded in his battle against the doorknob, disappearing into the night as Isabela disappeared giggling under the table.

"Wait!" Sebastian called, rising and chasing after him. "We need to discuss this! I have so many question! How did you manage to--?"

"No!" the group heard from outside.

After he was gone, the group stared at each other in mingled horror and hilarity. Isabela eventually emerged from under the table and ordered herself another drink.

"Five gold that they fuck again," Hawke said after a while.

"Five against," Fenris said.

"I'm with Hawke," Isabela said, still catching her breath. "Five gold on them fucking again."

"Aw, shit, guess that means I'm with Broody," Varric sighed. "Five gold against from me, too."

There was a long pause.

"Oh!" Merrill gasped eventually. "Did Anders and Sebastian have sex?"


	7. Krem/Cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Anderps on ao3  
> i accidentally got too drunk while writing this but was determined to publish one of these a day anyway. Anyway Here You Go.

"You wish to court me?" Cassandra said in astonishment.

"That's right," Krem said, puffing up. "Isn't that what you want?"

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, lifting her chin. "No." She walked briskly away, and then, briskly back. "Alright, yes, that is what I want," she said in consternation, "But certainly not now, and not by you."

Krem crossed his arms. "And what's wrong with me? A common tailor turned mercenary not good enough for a noble princess?"

Cassandra made a disgusted noise. "Hardly."

"Then I don't see the problem," Krem said. "You want to be courted, I want to court you. And that's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna court you so hard you won't know what hit you."

Cassandra stared at him, sighing. "This will end in disaster," she muttered, shaking her head and walking away.

\--

Krem wasn't blind. He'd always found Cassandra attractive. She was tall and striking and looked like she could eat him for breakfast. What wasn't there to like?

And then he had watched her beat Iron Bull into the ground with one vicious swing of a stick, and Krem was in love.

Once Cassandra was satisfied and had walked away, tossing her stick aside, Krem had abandoned his spot inside the tavern by the window.

"Boss," he'd said, skidding to a stop in front of Bull. "Holy shit."

"Yeah, yeah," Bull had grumbled, getting up. "Don't go getting any ideas. You still can't block for shit."

"No, no." He'd pointed to Cassandra's retreating frame. " _Holy shit!"_

Bull had suddenly understood. "Oh. Oh, yeah. I _know,_ right?"

"Holy shit!"

Now he would need Bull's help again.

"Boss!" he yelled, slamming open the tavern doors. Bull raised his eyebrows over his drink. "She said yes!"

"Alright!" Bull bellowed, scooping Krem up in a massive embrace, then noogieing him. "I told you you were a catch!"

"Yeah, yeah!" Krem said, wriggling out. "But you have to help me. I have no idea how to court a, y'know, noble lady."

"Hmm." Bull stroked his chin. "Let's get the crew together and figure it out."

\--

Cassandra would never admit it, but she was impressed. Very impressed, even.

It was not for nothing that the Chargers had a reputation as great problem-solvers.

They were also giving Josephine a long series of quiet heart attacks, but Cassandra felt oddly disinclined to tell them to stop.

First it had been expensive gifts, arranged by Maker knew only what means. The Antivan chocolates. The silverite longsword. The obsidian-inlay shield. The veritable library of fine Orlesian 'literature', the kind that had been banned in half the cities in Orlais for half a decade.

And the flowers. Flowers everywhere. Draped on her practice dummies, scattered on the doorstep to her private bedchambers. Some of them were even hand-picked--she could tell by the significant quantity of dirt still clinging to their exposed roots, and the presence of several varieties of poisonous weed mixed into those particular bunches.

The flaming arrows stuck into the hillside spelling out 'YOU SET MY HEART AFLAME' had a certain panache, she felt. Certainly in better taste than the horse with the dirty limerick shaved into its flank.

(Though as far as romantic poetry went, it _sort_ of counted.)

If this went on any longer, though, Cassandra would have to ask the Inquisitor not to take both herself and the Iron Bull on missions together anymore. If she had to listen to another rendition of Krem's top fifty best qualities _another_ time, she would scream.

So far Cassandra had rejected every suggestion of a private meeting, but she was beginning to worry that the longer she did that, the more excessive the gestures would become.

She had to do something about this. She agreed to meet privately, responding to a missive fired into her training dummy by arrow by scribbling her response, plucking the arrow out from the dummy's head, and then flinging it with her bare hands in the direction it had come from.

\--

Krem was standing in a vast field of roses in the moonlight. He'd actually combed his hair and taken off his armor, so Cassandra knew he was really serious. He'd arranged for them to meet a short hike outside Skyhold.

"Cremisus," she began. "Krem. I--"

"Wait, hold on," Krem said hurriedly, raising his hands. "They're going to be here any second now."

Cassandra raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

At that moment she heard the distant strains of song. She turned. After a moment, a small, overloaded vessel of musicians floated down the stream. Dalish was playing the fiddle, Skinner on the lute, Stitches on the horn. Rocky was warbling the romantic tune, eyes closed, enraptured in the song. Cassandra spotted Iron Bull hidden in the bushes on the other bank, giving them all a thumbs up. It was pretty impressive that a man twice as tall and thrice as wide as the average man, without counting his horns, could manage to hide at all, let alone in a bush. There was a certain admirable audacity to that.

The serenade floated down the stream, the strains of music slowly fading as they drifted.

Krem grinned awkwardly. "So? Pretty good, right?"

Cassandra had to work hard not to smile. "You certainly...put forth quite an effort."

"But?" Krem said. "Why am I detecting a 'but' in that next sentence?"

"But I am nearly twice your age, and you are far too young for me," Cassandra said decisively. She patted his cheek. "Though that is not to say I am not flattered. It is simply not to be, I am afraid."

"Star-crossed love, is it," Krem sighed.

"Something like that. You are a brave warrior, good and loyal and true. I am sure you will have little trouble finding someone worthy of you."

Krem shrugged. "It was worth a shot."

"Indeed it was. I admit I was...charmed, in some ways. I wish you all the luck in the world." Suddenly embarrassed, she nodded tersely, and turned to go.

"Without one kiss?" Krem called out.

Cassandra paused, sighing.

Perhaps she could indulge, just once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did she kiss him on the cheek? did they make out? its Schrodingers Kiss. We May Never Know.


	8. Zevran/Male Cousland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Nameless on ao3. apparently non-assholes male couslands with zev are pretty rare!

Cousland had always had some idea of how his wedding day would go. It had been more or less prescribed to him on the day he was born.

It would occur in a Chantry, for starters. A nice one, with the soaring spires and gilded walls, presided over by an esteemed Revered Mother. He would be wearing wedding clothes of rich red and orange, a silken marriage sash in hand with the banner of House Cousland emblazoned on it.

His bride would be a noblewoman, though likely one of slightly lesser standing than him. As a second son of one of the only Teyrns left in Ferelden, it would not be strictly _necessary_ that he marry--the provision of an heir was Fergus's purvey. But it would have broken his mother's heart if he didn't marry, and marry well, so Cousland knew that he would have to some day. He would hope she would be kind and funny, and good at conversation, though it did not particularly matter to him whether she would be beautiful or not. The beauty of women was a matter of some irrelevance to him.

Even after his mother had died defending his father in a pool of his own blood, even after Fergus was presumed dead and his family murdered, even after there was no longer anybody to disappoint, Cousland could not shake the feeling that his Chantry-sanctioned wedding day to a suitable woman was on the horizon. After all, as the last of the Couslands, it was his job, now, to continue the family line. He had a duty. He ought to be a good son, and fulfill that duty.

Instead he'd run off to Antiva with an elven assassin without a second thought the moment the opportunity had presented itself.

"You know," Zevran had said, standing on tip-toe to whisper in Cousland's ear during the celebration, "I was not joking about the 'engagement' part of that engagement ring. If that is indeed something you wish."

Cousland gasped, exaggeratedly dramatic. "You mean I, one of the highest noble lords in all of Ferelden, tasked with the continuation of my family line, the most ancient and noble line of Cousland, pillar of the Ferelden gentry? Elope with an elven assassin, here and now, on the eve of the festivities of my well-publicized victory? With a thousand duties and obligations about to fall upon my shoulders, with nobles to appease, marriages to arrange, warrior orders to restore? With all of Ferelden's eye upon me? Maker, could you imagine the _scandal?"_

Zevran drew away. "You are right," he said dryly. "Forgive me for even suggesting it. Of course, you have duties, and--"

"What, are you kidding?" Cousland said hurriedly, taking him by the shoulders and kissing him, mumbling into his mouth. "Of course I'll elope with you. Can we do it tonight? Right now? I really hate these functions."

"I _do_ enjoy scandals," Zevran admitted, kissing him harder.

And so the last scion of house Cousland did _not_ get married in a Chantry, with an esteemed Revered Mother in attendance, draped in ceremonial orange and the silk sash of his family's house in hand. He got married on a pirate ship, with the pirate captain presiding, wearing bloodstained pajamas and a handful of mismatched leathers, following a wild escape from Antiva City during which he and his fiance's preemptive honeymoon had been interrupted by a group of assassins.

"My, but can you imagine the scandal?" Zevran chuckled, lightly ghosting his hands over his new husband's hips. "We must have caused a sensation across at least three sovereign nations."

"Oh, well," Cousland said with a shrug. "I always  _was_ a bit of a disappointment."


	9. Solas/Female Adaar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for floranna2 on tumblr  
> i am truly sorry for this

The Inquisitor had intrigued him.

No, more than that. She had enchanted him. Entranced him.

Adaar was powerful--physically, magically, and mentally. She was seven feet of rock-solid muscle, an ocean of willpower, a keenly sharpened blade of intellect. She was an uncompromising leader, an inspiring hero to nearly all that saw her, a terror unto her enemies.

She was also stupidly beautiful, not that Solas was mindful of such things. She was stupidly beautiful, and each one of her breasts was the size of his head, which he could tell, because she insisted on wearing little more than loose scraps of fabric into battle, calling it "Traditional Qunari Armor".

Not that Solas was mindful of such things.

Alright, so what if he was a millennia-old elven god. He was still a man.

Her flirtations did not much help the matter of his...intriguement. Odd as these flirtations were.

"I'd like to take a crack at _that_ egg," she was known to say, with a theatrical wink. "Preferably between my thighs."

"Mm, if I had my way, I'd be making omelettes tonight," she had said to him once. Solas had smiled politely, revealing nothing.

"Boy," she'd called on another occasion. "You've got me absolutely _scrambled."_

It just straddled the line between insulting and complimentary. Solas found that oddly appealing.

Of course it had all ended in the Fade, them, together, in the Fade, just Adaar and Solas. Discussing...certain topics, and performing...certain actions.

He had returned to that dream memory on a few occasions since. Maybe more than just a few occasions.

Now he climbed the numerous flights of stairs for his planned meeting with her. His heart beat fast. Mostly from the hundred flights of stairs he'd had to climb to get to her quarters. Mostly from that.

There she stood on her balcony, silhouetted against the setting sun, blotting out most of it with her bulk. She turned to him at the sound of his approach, grinning, her long white braid flapping in the wind.

"Well _hello_ there," she said. "There's my favorite delicate little damsel. You made it up all those stairs okay?"

"Quite," he said. "Although I am hardly delicate."

"Aw, I know," she said, leaning against the railing. "You're just so little. It's easy to forget."

He joined her on the balcony. There was a pause, in which her arresting violet eyes raked his narrow figure. "Inquisitor," he said, "What were you like, before the Anchor? Has it...changed you in any way?"

"How would I know?" she snorted, and started rubbing his shoulders. "You know, I usually don't put all my eggs in my basket. But you make me want to put all my baskets in one egg."

"Yes, of course," he said distractedly. "That is an excellent point."

"So, is that a yes? Are we gonna get over easy or what?"

"I..." Solas was distracted, but there were things he'd wanted to say to her, before anything else. Things he needed to know. "It is just that you show a wisdom that I have not seen since...my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade. You are not what I expected."

"Aw, ain't you sweet. Seriously, though, I'm a lady on a schedule. Are you hard boiled or not?"

"It is just," Solas sighed, "Most people are so predictable. Qunari are savage creatures--"

Adaar froze. "Uh, we're what now?"

"--their ferocity only held in check by the rigid rules of the Qun--"

"Our _what now?"_

"--and I know that I am not misinformed. Most people are small, petty."

"Well," Adaar said. "I certainly ain't small, that's for sure. That's for _real_ sure."

"Exactly!" Solas beamed up at her. "You are not like them at all."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." She shrugged, and grasped him around the middle, lifting him into the air. "Small, nah. Petty and savage? Well, maybe!"

It was Solas's good fortune that Adaar was so powerful, physically, magically and mentally, that she managed to fling him far enough outside the walls of Skyhold that he landed harmlessly in a deep snowdrift.

He was in love before he'd even hit his downward arc.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually do like solas (as a character, and a villain)!!! i even romanced him on my canon playthrough!!! hes just!!! so easy to make fun of!!!!


	10. Cole/Iron Bull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for ChooChooRailroadCrew (Elona7) on ao3  
> damn this one was hard?? both of these characters are so Heavy and I've never really written or thought about either of them....Oh Well Here You Go !

The Hinterlands were actually quite lovely this time of year, if you avoided at least most of the bears.

Iron Bull felt a little odd about being here at all, if he was honest. There weren't demons everywhere. There wasn't any green shit pouring from the sky. He wasn't chasing after the Inquisitor, madly trying to keep them from dying. It was just a peaceful countryside, with pretty flowers and pleasant sunlight cutting through the crisp, cold Ferelden air, demon-free for over a year now.

It was almost enough to make Bull slightly less edgy than he usually was. It was...nice.

But weird. Weird as shit. Especially since he was here alone with Cole.

It was a testament to how far he'd come that he was willing to be anywhere alone with Cole. That he actually cared about him. And beyond caring about him, _liked_ him.  Really liked him.

"You sure about this?" he said. It was probably his most commonly used phrase with Cole. Was he sure? Was he absolutely sure? About this, about that? About this next thing? Okay, but was he _really_ sure? Absolutely, totally, perfectly sure?

"Yes," said Cole. He paused, searching around for something, before heading off determinedly in a slightly altered direction. Bull followed. He'd promised that he would.

He just didn't seem to know what Cole wanted from him, and that made him uneasy. The fact that Cole so easily seemed to know what Bull wanted...compounded the feeling.

"You ain't gonna tell me where we're going, huh," Bull said, just to make conversation.

"Not yet," said Cole.

It was...new, whatever was happening with them. If it could even be called a 'thing'. Bull still wasn't sure if it was a 'thing' or not. The increasingly human young man had been curious, about love, about sex, and well, Bull had been game--he was a free man, now, more or less. Shit, once you were Tal Vashoth, you were pretty much gone already. No point in trying anymore. You might as well start messing around with mysterious demon...spirit...people. Cole clearly needed Bull, and Bull knew how to provide what people needed.

Except he wasn't exactly sure what Cole needed from him anymore. He thought he'd known, but he'd clearly been wrong. In fact, at this point, traipsing through the Hinterlands together, Bull had approximately zero idea at all what this thing might be.

They reached the top of a hill. Crystal grace grew there, and embrium, with shoots of elfroot crowding in among the blooms. Cole sat down in the flowers, facing the setting sun.

Iron Bull sat down next to him. The moments drifted by, and Cole said nothing, so Bull regarded the sunset.

He coughed awkwardly. "Pretty," he said eventually.

"Yes," Cole agreed, a wistful smile gracing his pale face. His slender hands started to gather flowers, though without much determination.

Iron Bull watched him, not feeling the need to talk. He was good at watching--of course he was, having been a spy. Beyond that, he liked it. Cole had a strange, hypnotic way of moving that was pleasing to the eye.

Nice. This was...nice. Iron Bull wasn't sure what to make of that.

"I don't know what people need anymore," Cole said, unprompted. "I can't go looking in their heads anymore. But I think, I can still tell, sometimes, what they'd like."

"Shit," Bull said. "Are you taking me out? Is this a date?"

Cole began plating the flowers into a chain. He stared thoughtfully at his work for a long while. "Yes," he said decisively, having long considered it.

Bull chuckled. "Well...look at you, getting the hang of this. It's sweet. Glad I could help."

"The Iron Bull." Cole's blue eyes were on him. It had bee an address.

"Yeah?"

"You are more than just help," Cole said slowly. "Much more." He paused. "I want...you to see that."

He linked the last of the flowers in the chain together into a loop and held it up. "May I put this on you?"

Bull chuckled, feeling oddly hot in the eyeball. "I....sure. Go right ahead."

Cole lay the crown of flowers on Bull's lumpy head and smiled, satisfied with his work. "You are more than just help," he repeated, dipping his head so his ridiculous hat obscured his eyes. "Much more."

Bull lay back, feeling the summer breeze ghost over his scarred skin. Much more. Huh.

"You too, Cole," he said. "Really. I hope you know that."

Cole's smile was brighter than the sun.


	11. Alistair/Zevran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for laughlikesomethingbroken on tumblr  
> tbh? there should be more of this ship

There was a disturbance in the king's bedchambers. An assassin moved in the night, having entered through the open window, stalking ever closer to the royal bed where the king slept alone. The assassin's grin glinted in the darkness, preparing to pounce...

" _Must_ you do this?" Alistair complained, lighting the candle at his bedside. "What's wrong with coming to visit me through the front door, in the daytime?"

"I wanted to surprise you," Zevran said, wounded.

"Well," Alistair huffed, rubbing his eyes. "Consider me surprised. Though not as surprised as the first time you pulled this. Though that was less 'surprise' and more 'pants-ruining fear'."

"Come now," Zevran laughed, vaulting onto the bed, running his hands over Alistair's bed-mussed hair and down his shoulders. "Surprises are what keep a relationship fun and fresh!"

"Ye-es," Alistair allowed, drawing him closer, "But generally I think it refers to, you know, surprising someone with pancakes for breakfast, or something. And not breaking into their bedchambers whenever whimsy seizes you. Do you have any idea how much of a headache you are for my guards? The poor fellows are at their wits' end."

"Very well," Zevran said, settling more comfortably between his thighs. "Tomorrow morning I will surprise you with pancakes."

"But then it won't be a surprise."

"Oh, dear. It appears that I am not very good at this. Will you forgive me, my king?"

Alistair rolled his eyes, but couldn't suppress a fond smile. "Of course." He pulled him close for a kiss, the lingering, lightly desperate kiss of one who does not know if his lover will still be there in the morning, and when he will be back if he is not.

There was comparatively little talking for a time.

"You know," Zevran said afterward, curled into Alistair's side, tracing patterns along his skin, "It does not have to be this way."

Alistair didn't reply for a time, mindlessly curling a piece of Zevran's hair on his finger. "What d'you mean?"

"My unexpected comings and goings. The long absences. If you wished it...I could simply stay here."

"What about your war on the Crows?"

"Hm, yes, there is that. But distasteful as I find them, I have to say, I am weary of bloodshed. I could stand to linger uselessly in court, surrounded by excess and wealth, relying on a king's protection...certainly for a time, at least." He kissed the side of his neck. "Does that not sound agreeable?

Alistair sighed, closing his eyes. After a while, he said, "Of course it does, but it's not that simple. You know it's not."

"Isn't it?" Zevran chuckled, though somewhat hollowly. "No, of course. The king of Ferelden cannot reasonably be seen flaunting his elven assassin lover at court. Now, in Antiva, this would hardly be worth a passing remark, but I am sensitive to our cultural differences and recognize that in Ferelden such things simply do not stand." He snorted. "Though I hardly see why being king means you are no longer allowed pleasure of any kind. One would think it should be quite the opposite."

"That _is_ what it means," Alistair said. "You have no idea how much I wish you could stay here. Maker's Breath, you'd make a better king than I am. Even beyond...what we have, I could use your advice. But..."

"But," Zevran agreed, before he could continue. "Well, no matter. What we have is fine as it is. I take only what you offer, and no more."

Alistair sighed and pulled him closer. "Will you stay?"

"For the night? Certainly, my king."

For the night, he stayed. In the morning, he was gone.

The following night, as with every night, despite the cold night air, Alistair left the window open.


	12. Sera/Cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon on tumblr  
> i did some art for this pair [here](http://gayspaceart.tumblr.com/post/154181714762/december-of-dragon-femslash-day-7-cassera-i) for my dragon femslash event!

"I did not expect it would go like this," Cassandra admitted, on the day of her wedding.

"What, gettin' married?" said Sera.

"I did not expect I would get married at all," the Seeker said. She looked radiant yet baffled in her gown, a floor-length affair that displayed her powerful back and shoulders.

"Yeah, and I ain't exactly the marrying type, am I?" said Sera. "But hey, when you love someone or whatever, what else are you going to do?"

Cassandra still felt somewhat in a dream. Herself, getting married. From an early age the hand life had dealt her seemed plainly opposed to any such thing. She was a woman of action. Such things were not for her. She had never mourned it. Her romantic desires were singularly ridiculous, and she was unprepared to settle for less.

Sera was no exactly the courtly lover she had imagined pursuing her--but she was hardly 'less'.

"I confess," Cassandra said, "I am nervous."

"Nothin' to be nervous about, yea?"  Sera replied. The fact that she also wore a dress, one that was neither tattered nor stained with mustard, was perhaps the biggest surprise of the day. "We just take a little stroll together, say a few words all about how much we love each other, then we're home free. We win! Woohoo!"

"And that does not seem terrifying to you?" Cassandra rubbed the back of her hand with her thumb, shifting from foot to foot. "All this...public confession of emotions? Such barefaced honesty?"

Sera stared for a moment, and then giggled so loudly she snorted.

"Stop that," Cassandra said, blushing. "You are not making me any less nervous."

"Sorry, sorry," Sera said, still giggling. "I'm just tickled because you skewer demons and abominations every day with nothing but a bit of metal to protect yourself with, and you ain't ever anything less than absolutely ferocious about it--which, by the way, _woof_ \--and when it comes to saying some nice things about me in public, you're shaking in your boots."

"I have more than metal," Cassandra protested. "I have faith. And my abilities as a Seeker. And it is _not_ that I am afraid of saying nice things about you in public. I say nice things about you all the time."

"See? That's why I want you to be mine, wifey." Sera stood on tip-toes and tapped Cassandra on the nose. "You think anybody else is out here saying anything nice about me?"

"Well," Cassandra huffed, placing her hands on either side of Sera's face. "That is a shame, for your good qualities are many and vast." She paused. "But I'm still nervous."

Sera laughed again, this time low and throaty. While she was still on tip-toes, she kissed her. "Well, no trouble," she said. "I arranged a little something that'll let us duck out early and start the honeymoon right away. Just say the word and we can make an escape, yeah?"

Yes, life, and romance, was certainly full of surprises.

Sometimes the surprise was bees.


	13. Alistair/Morrigan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for duprass42 on tumblr  
> requester specified that both characters be trans  
> i am nonbinary but do not identify as trans, so i was hesitant in approaching this. a different trans friend requested the characters find common ground in transness, so i decided to include that also--i didn't want this to come off as fetishizing transness for the sake of a funny pregnancy plotline. i have written trans characters before, and i want to do the best possible job in doing so, and am as always welcoming of criticism regarding their portrayal

"Alistair."

The Warden's voice was flat, their face ashen. Given the news they had recently received, understandable. But they hadn't looked quite so disturbed a few minutes ago...

"Ye-es?" Alistair said lightly, but the Warden had already seized him by the wrist and were dragging him out the door. "Whats this about?" he asked, and received no response. He gave up, resigning himself to the fate the Warden had in store for him. After all, he'd been doing as much for the past year, he thought bitterly.

The Warden delivered him to their own bedchambers, which were currently occupied by Morrigan of all people, standing ominously before the blazing fire.

"Talk to him yourself," they barked, letting go of him and stomping out the door. "I want no part of this." The door slammed behind him, leaving him alone with Morrigan.

He really, really wished the door had closed on him with somebody else. Anybody. A hurlock. Oghren. _Anybody._

"So," he said, clearing his throat. "What did you want to talk about?

Morrigan talked for a little while, during which time Alistair potentially had at least two small arrests of the heart.

"Let me get this straight," he said. "You want to impregnate me with a demon baby, spirit me away into some nightmare mirror dimension while it grows in me, and then steal it for your own dark unknown purposes?"

Morrigan made a _tch_ noise. "For once you seem to have gotten something right, yes."

Alistair laughed, a little manically. "What possibly makes you think that there is the _remotest_ chance of me agreeing to something like that?"

"Because either you agree, or risk death," Morrigan said. "Riordan is not as fresh as he once was. Do you truly suppose he will succeed in killing the Archdemon? Would you stake your life, and the Warden's life on it? Are you truly so selfish as to allow another to die for you?"

"I'll die myself," Alistair retorted.

"Oh? And leave Ferelden without a king?"

"Anora can do it! I don't care, I never wanted this!"

Morrigan crossed her arms and made a disgusted noise. "You are impossible."

They glared at each other for a long moment. The sound of the Warden gently beating their head against the wall was distantly audible.

"If you do this," Morrigan said eventually, "You won't have to be king for at least another nine months."

Alistair lifted a pontificating finger, and then lowered it. "I--hmm."

\--

Many hours of interrogation and negotiation later, they were ready to begin. Alistair had stripped down to a shirt and smalls.

Morrigan gestured irritably. "Well?"

Alistair nearly cringed. "Are you sure we can't just do it, y'know, like this?"

"What, right through the fabric?"

"Is that...a no?"

" _Yes._ Now take off your pants."

In another minute they were both completely naked, standing awkwardly and staring at each other.

"Have you," Alistair started, "y'know, done this before?"

Morrigan's blush was faint but obvious. "No," she admitted.

"I--really? You always talk about snaring innocent men into your seductive--"

"Flemeth did that," Morrigan snapped. "She expected it of me, but I never did. There. Happy, now that I've admitted it?"

"No," Alistair snapped back.

"Good." Morrigan crossed her arms and continued to blush.

There were several more long seconds of silence.

"I am _really_ uncomfortable," Alistair said after a while. "Maybe we should just--"

"No!" Morrigan finally took a sharp breath and stepped forward to push him onto the bed. He landed with a startled _whump._ "Let's just--get this over with." She climbed on.

"Oh, come on, where's the romance? This is going to be even more uncomfortable than it has to be if--"

"I have a spell."

"Oh. Well. That's fine too, I guess."

\--

They lay on the bed for several minutes afterwards, sweat cooling, several inches of space between them.

"Well," Alistair said, "That could have been worse."

"Could it?" Morrigan said.

"Oh, sure. We could have been interrupted. By Zevran, looking to join in. Or Oghren. Can you imagine?"

Morrigan snorted and didn't reply. He'd expected her to get up, get dressed and leave immediately--he would have preferred it, so that he wouldn't have to look at her drawn expression--but she was still here.

Alistair felt hollow, cheated. This wasn't how his first time in bed was supposed to go. Her seed was still drying on his thighs, and she had rolled away from him in disgust the moment it was over. He'd always been afraid of that disgust--but at least, from Morrigan, it wasn't for the reason he'd feared.

"Does the rest of the group know?" he said quietly. "That you're--like me?"

"No," Morrigan said. "And they will not. If you tell, you'll regret it."

"I won't tell. I'd ask you not to tell, either, but...I didn't think I was fooling anybody, anyway."

"It is not 'fooling'" Morrigan's voice was curiously soft.

Which was almost a nice thing to say, so Alistair would take what he could get.

"You kiss atrociously," Morrigan sniffed, to break the tension of what was nearly an instance of kindness. "Like a celibate Chantry slave."

"Well, you kiss like a swamp witch," Alistair shot back, relieved to return to the normal swing of things. "Were you trying to kiss me or eat my face?"

Morrigan snorted. "Both, if 'twould keep you quiet, for once."

"Fat chance of that. You're stuck with me for the next nine months. D'you suppose I'll have cravings? What if my feet swell? You'll have to take care of my every need until the nightmare demon baby is born. My condition is delicate."

"Ugh." Morrigan got up and started picking up her rags from the floor.

"No complaining!" Alistair lifted himself up on one elbow. "You're the one who did this to me. Time to take some responsibility."

" _Ugh,"_ Morrigan repeated, with feeling.


	14. Velanna/Leliana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon on tumblr

"That song."

Leliana's voice broke off. She turned, startled. The Dalish warden Leliana had met only briefly earlier that day stood there, her lamplike elven eyes glowing in the darkness.

Glowing rather angrily, at that.

She recalled her name, from when the Warden had introduced them, though they had not talked much before. Velanna.

"Yes," she said, "it is--"

"I know what it is," Velanna snapped. "It is a song of _our_ people. What right have you to sing it with your shemlen lips?"

"I..." Leliana hesitated. "I'm sorry. I meant no offense. When I was young, my nanny would sing it to me. She practically raised me. It reminds me of her."

"Your flat-eared elven nanny, I suppose," Velanna said acidly. "Slaving away in the household of your rich shemlen mother."

"No," Leliana said, "I hardly even knew my mother. She was a servant in Lady Cecilie's house."

Velanna's scowl remained firmly in place. "You have no right," she said again.

Leliana looked down. She had only been singing to herself. It was a beautiful night and her heart was troubled. That song always calmed her. "My mother was elven," she admitted. "Is it not better that _someone_ remember those songs, even if it is not the Dalish? Mahariel felt that way. But, I understand if you do not. I will refrain."

Velanna grunted. Her shoulders, sharp and angular, inched downward. "I did not realize you were half-blooded," she said.

"Lady Cecilie preferred to hide my blood status. She told me I was fully human. I remember very little of my mother. Only her scent. It was not long ago that I realized the truth about myself."

"Tch." Velanna did not uncross her arms, but redirected her ireful gaze into the distance and away from Leliana. "This is why elves ought not live amongst shemlen. We forget too much. The shemlen take everything from us, even our memory. We do best when kept away from them."

"If that were the case, I would not even exist."

Velanna had nothing to say to that.

The moon was still rising, bright and pregnant. Leliana sat in the grass, resting her elbows on her knees. "Beautiful, isn't it?" she said. "Come. Why don't you sit and talk with me?"

She fully expected a no. The brief interactions she had with the former Keeper indicated that she was not one for socializing. But to her surprise, Velanna came up and wordlessly sat by her.

"What," Velanna said hesitantly, "do you wish to talk about?"

Leliana had not planned for this. Velanna was staring at her with her bright eyes, hesitant yet expectant. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear self-consciously. "You could recite another Dalish poem for me," she said. "Or a story, or a song. So that it might not be lost. Unless you still feel I haven't the right. I would understand."

Velanna aimlessly caused the grass to grow with her magic. A few blooms sprouted there. Beautiful, Leliana thought, gasping slightly.

"You have the right," Velanna admitted eventually. "Sing that song for me again, and I will tell you."


	15. Josephine/Morrigan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cant remember who this was for but here u go

Josephine had heard a few tales of the witch from Leliana. Not many, but a few--just enough to make whet Josephine's curiosity.

Leliana had travelled with the witch for most of a year, and she seemed sour to remember it. Josephine had pestered her endlessly for the details of her adventure, and occasionally, Leliana would give her lately all-too-rare smile and agree to indulge her. She spoke with great affection of most of them--of the man who could have been king, of the secretly gentle Qunari warrior, of the assassin and golem and all matter of exciting personages--all except Morrigan, of whom she most often muttered bitterly.

Josephine vaguely wondered if they had been involved.

All she knew for sure was that she was an apostate, who sometimes turned into a giant spider for fun, and that she was mysteriously involved in the Hero of Ferelden's survival, and that she had allegedly stolen a baby and run off at the end of the Blight with hardly a word to anyone.

Anyone would have been excited to hear such a person was coming to Skyhold.

Josephine was being entirely reasonable.

For what it was worth, the boy who accompanied her certainly didn't _seem_ stolen. He was polite, respectful, and his mother's spitting image. Surely it was not possible to steal one's own child?

And she had yet to turn into a giant spider a single time. At least, not while Josephine was watching.

And she _had_ been watching, she realized guiltily. She usually did her work in her office, at her desk, where everything was clean and calm and under her control. She could not fairly attribute her sudden desire to work in the gardens to the pleasant weather alone.

Leliana had repeatedly advised Josephine to give the witch a wide berth.

Well, that was nonsense, Josephine thought firmly, snapping shut the volume she had been reading. She was a woman grown. She could talk to whomever she liked.

Besides, she was the ambassador. She had been the one to show Morrigan around Skyhold, arranged for her quarters, assigned people to mind her. What was wrong with a more personal greeting?

She approached with the casual confidence of a career diplomat, and not someone thinking of spiders and stolen children and mysterious rituals. "Greetings," she began, "How are you finding Skyhold so far?"

Morrigan seemed to consider. "Too many walls for my liking," she said eventually.

"Ah, yes," said Josephine. "Hence your preference for the garden." Morrigan's golden eyes shifted to her, though the woman remained curiously motionless. She reminded Josephine of one of Leliana's ravens. She cleared her throat. "And, ah, is there anything you need?"

"No," Morrigan said vehemently, "No, I do _not_ need a change of shirt. No, I am not cold. I am entirely happy with my clothing. Yes, really."

Josephine blinked. "Of course," she said smoothly, bouncing back. None but the most trained players of the Game could have detected her confusion. "I would not dream of suggesting otherwise."

Josephine quite liked Morrigan's shirt. Or lack thereof. It was...culturally significant to the Chasind, Josephine was reasonably sure. Though now she would have to make sure that none of her employees were being unintentionally rude to the Inquisition's guest.

"Actually," she said, her trained diplomat's tongue running far ahead of her trained diplomat's mind, "I came to extend an invitation. For dinner," she tapped her fingers together, "With me."

"Tch. I should tell you," the witch said, "my ties to the Orlesian court are now minimal. I appear to have been discarded. If your intention was to politick--"

"Not at all," Josephine said. "I merely wished to establish...friendly relations."

The corner of Morrigan's full mouth tugged upward. "Friendly relations," she repeated.

"Yes," said Josephine stolidly.

"I suppose you have questions," Morrigan said--perhaps even drawled. "I can't even imagine what dear Leliana has been saying about me."

"Oh, no. Nothing like that."

"Ah. Truly? You have no curiosity at all you wish to...indulge?" Morrigan's smile was fully present now, and rather predatory. More like a cat than a bird.

"Well," Josephine said, strangely breathless. "Perhaps a touch."

"Very well. Then dinner it will be. Perhaps we could indulge some curiosity." Morrigan rose, her odd golden eyes not leaving Josephine as she did. "Come, Kieran," she called. "It is time for your lessons."

Josephine returned to her office, her pulse slowly returning to normal as she considered the menu. Perhaps she had a _few_ questions. Perhaps she could indulge a _little._

She sat down in her chair, drumming her fingers on the desk, humming a bit to herself. Her nails needed trimming, she thought vaguely.

Leliana was definitely going to have a conniption.


	16. Trans Fenris/Krem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for theonewiththewords on tumblr

"Alright, next competition," Krem said in Tevene, sitting himself down at the table across from Fenris.

Fenris looked mildly amused. "After you had to be carried out from yesterday's drinking competition?"

Krem rolled his eyes. "I didn't realize you were _serious_ about spending seven years hate-drinking a magister's wine cellar."

"I did not drink all of it," Fenris said. "Hawke and Isabela helped."

"Whatever. Today's contest is different."

Fenris had quickly become Krem's new favorite agent of the Inquisition. They chanced to be training together with others, and then together exclusively--as nobody else in their company used weapons so large. And then they were chatting in Tevene together, and sharing the occasional drink, and discovering other commonalities. When Krem procured a proper binder for Fenris, so that he wouldn't slouch so much and make a worthier opponent--well, by then they were solidly friends.

Fenris's amused smile grew an inch. "And what will it be?"

"Arm wrestling!"

Fenris snorted and then devolved into laughter. "I do not think you will have any more success in that contest than yesterday's."

"Hey, I'm a tough guy! I swing around this huge maul all day! I'm pretty strong!"

"Very well. Then let us arm wrestle."

Krem grinned and slammed his elbow on the table. Fenris clasped his hand in his and leaned forward.

"Wait, we need someone to say start," Krem said, turning his head. "Hey, Bull!"

Bull gave him a thumbs-up from across the tavern, and then called, "Start!"

Fenris slammed the back of Krem's hand on the table.

"Oh, no way," Krem complained. " _No way."_

"Would you like to try again?"

Krem's hand slammed on the table a second and third time.

"You _are_ strong." Krem huffed. "You could throw a body right over the walls if you tried."

"That last time it took a few seconds longer than the first two," Fenris said. "If you keep this up I may get tired. Or so bored that you might win by distracting me."

Krem glared, but couldn't keep the grin off his face. He glanced at Bull, who gave him another thumbs-up. "One more time."

"Surely your arm must be beginning to hurt."

"Aw, are you worried about me?"

Their hands were still joined on the table. Fenris produced a barely-detectable blush. "Again, then?" he said dryly.

They reset the position. Krem braced himself, leaning forward a little. "This time will be different," he warned.

"If you say so." The smile on Fenris's lips was taking on a distinct character of smugness.

This time, when the start was announced, Krem surged forward over their clasped hands to plant a kiss on that ludicrously strong elf's smug lips.

A moment later, Krem slammed Fenris's hand on the table.

"Well," said Fenris, blushing much more in evidence. "That time was certainly different."

"Your own fault, my friend. You said yourself that I might distract you to victory."

"Hmm, I suppose I did."

"Don't be coy. I could tell you were kissing back."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Fenris said archly.

Krem grinned. Arm-wrestling really was just hand-holding for tough guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene:
> 
> "It's nice to talk to someone in Tevene for once," Krem admitted, quaffing ale.
> 
> "Indeed," Fenris agreed. "Speech in a mother tongue is always comforting. I am surprised that in an organization as large as the Inquisition has no other Tevinter natives."
> 
> "We-ell, there's Dorian," said Krem. "Bull likes him, but I dunno. Him being a magister and all..."
> 
> Fenris paused halfway through a long pull of wine. "There is a magister here?"
> 
> "Oh, sure. He usually hangs about in the library. The one with the curly mustache--hey, where are you going?"
> 
> "To test your theory about my being able to throw someone over the walls of Skyhold," Fenris replied, heading out the door.


	17. Solas/Female Surana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for shalaidah on ao3  
> in recompense for the last solas fic this one is genuinely haunting and romantic  
> the soundtrack for this rarepair is the lana del rey version of 'once upon a dream'

He had dreamt of her, during his long sleep.

The wanderings of one deep in uthenera were neither linear nor sensible. It took prodigious effort to make sense of anything at all.

He managed it but sometimes, to piece together a disparate puzzle into a semblance of continuity.

An image. An elven girl, locked in a tower of stone. The cold which seeps into everything. The acrid smell of magebane. The sound of laughter heard only in dreams. They tell her all spirits are evil. She does not believe that. They can lock her away, but they cannot stop her dreaming--as long as she is careful.

Another image. A young elven woman. Clearer now--more present in the Fade than ever. The bite of a chipped tooth, the sturdiness of an old apprentice's staff. Beset by demons--old friends, now. She is unafraid, and then she is gone.

The same woman--her face though unlined, her shoulders heavy with travel and war. Eyes fierce, snarl furious, indignation in the senseless music of her voice. So like him in his youth--a leader, a maverick. They follow her. They should. She protects _her own,_ and so she will protect them--all of them.

The roar of victory. A hero of blood and silver, triumphant and shining, raising a monarch to his throne? Or a conniving enchantress, consorter with demons, whispering poison into the king's ear? Neither, yet both.

She is an intriguing dream.

He wonders what era she is from, what legend she has become to be imprinted on so many memories--as valiant knight, as vile deceiver, she who may bless and she who may damn.

A cold ache in the heart, deeper than any may touch.

He awakes in a nightmare world, of bleached-white bone and empty husks. Ghosts swarm this dark future.

This was not supposed to happen.

\--

His dreams are more ordered now, now that he is not dreaming always.

She accosts him there, breaking through a hundred layers of solitude.

"You," she says.

The surprise is not that she is here in the Fade, but that she is clearly no memory. She is a woman breathing, dreaming.

He does not quite believe it.

"Me," he replies, soft.

"You're the one I've been seeing in my dreams," she accuses, taking a step towards him. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"

"I wish nothing of you."

She glares, but her shoulders drop an inch. She pauses for moments impossible to tell in the realm of the dreaming.

"I thought you were like an imaginary friend. I thought I'd made you up," she says eventually. "I was so lonely."

He can tell; but only in the Fade would she say something so vulnerable.

"I can understand that," he replies. She can't possibly be real. She had been an ancient lost dream. She still must be. Still, he takes a hesitant step towards her.

She gazes at him, head tilted, wondering, and begins to reach out--

He awakes in the dark forest at the cry of a raven, a root digging into his back. Dawn is breaking.

He lies under the tree for longer than he meant to, remembering.

It would not be the last time he would meet her this way.

(He allows himself this.)

\--

He sees her in flesh and blood some years later.

She has arrived to assist in the conflict with the Wardens (one _he_ caused, ultimately). She looks different outside of the dream. In the Fade, she was luminous, vibrant and vibrating, every inch of her singing of blood and lyrium. She was colossal, unbreaking, beloved hero and wretched villain in the same breath (that, too, he understands.)

In this decrepit world of physicality which he will not accept, yet, as real and irreversible, she is only a woman. She is shorter than him, shorter than any woman of Arlathan. Her hair is heavy with sweat and dust, her clothing travel-stained. There are lines, now, around her mouth and on her forehead.

Her eyes are as bright and hungry as ever. Unmistakably alive. Miserably _awake._

She comes to see him--not on the first day she is here, nor on the second, but on the third. He does not seek her himself. To seek her would be to break the illusion. He is halfway through his notes when she appears in the doorway of his rotunda.

"Is it you?" she asks.

"I cannot say," he replies.

She crosses the room with a few deceptively long strides. Her gaze is unyielding, searching his face for answers.

"Good enough," she decides.

He can't suppress a faint smile. "I suppose I shall have to be."

Her fingers ghost his cheek, undeniable. "You shall."

\--

Ultimately she does not stay long. She agrees to stay in close contact with the Inquisitor, to coordinate, and rides away. He does not watch her go. He does not need to.

Soon after the defeat of Corypheus, she disappears from his dreams, too. He searches for her, but she is guarding against him. He supposes he might be able to break through, if he tried, but to what end?

Things move forward. Years, though not many, pass. His lies and secrets are revealed. He regrets little and apologizes for less.

Some nights later he dreams of her again.

This piece of Fade is tempestuous, stormy, dark. Fury permeates it. She appears out of the murk like lightning at midnight.

"You," she says.

"Me," he agrees.

"You were my friend once. And more. All my life I have dreamt of you."

"As I have dreamt of you, _vhenan,_ for longer than I care to admit."

Her face is impassive. She knows what the word means. She does not care.

"You have been dear to my heart," she says, "but this day you have made a bitter enemy. Every intimacy we shared becomes a blade to strike you down. Each vulnerable truth will be a place where I leave my poisoned arrows. Each facet of your true soul will be one I use to harm you. For how _dare_ you, threaten my own?" Her visage trembles, becomes more terrible yet. "How dare you threaten what is _mine?"_

He bows his head.

"I have slain greater gods than you."

"Then, _vhenan,_ I wish you all the fortune in the world."

She disappears, though the storm remains.

He will proceed. It is too late, now, not to.

And if he has any luck at all, she is not exaggerating.


	18. Leliana/Josephine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh i dont know who this one was for either. probably a tumblr anon??

The hour had grown exceedingly late. It was only the two of them, so Josephine had taken her hair down when her headache had begun to develop, and hung her heavy golden necklace on the back of her chair. Leliana, for her part, had pushed her hood back and tossed her gloves somewhere behind her.

Pieces of parchment lay scattered over the war table. Candle stubs had long burned low. They had been puzzling over the Inquisitor's latest orders for hours now.

"We could," Lelianna put forth, "send assassins."

Josephine sighed. "Leliana, you _always_ suggest sending assassins. You have suggested it six times so far tonight. There are more ways of dealing with one's problems than sending assassins."

"I don't see why not," Leliana grumbled.

"Murder is wrong," Josephine said dryly.

Leliana hmphed. "Assassins would only kill them. They wouldn't ruin the entire family for generations to come, resulting in several destroyed marriages, suicides and duels to the death."

Josephine gave her a pointed look.

Leliana huffed moodily. "Very well. We will continue to examine options beyond assassins."

"We will figure it out."

"Well, we have to figure it out tonight, because tomorrow Cullen will come back and all his suggestions will involve beating the problem to death and we'll never get anything done."

Josephine took a long pull of the coffee left standing on the table. It was mostly cold sludge by now. She stared at their pages of haphazard notes. Then, she determinedly set her cup down and sat up straighter.

"Alright," she declared, "I've an idea. Do you remember Lady Omelie?"

Leliana blinked, then brightened. "Oh! Who we met at the Marquesse du Volemar's party? The one she threw for her pet hamster's christening?"

"Yes, her--we could contact her and see if she still has access to her--"

"Her collection of trained voles, yes...." Leliana sat forward and began to scribble furiously on a fresh sheet of parchment. "Ah, but she does not distribute favors so easily. How might we sweeten her disposition?"

"I know just the thing," Josephine said. "Did you hear of her marriage to the Duke de Verdonne?"

"Of course, but--" Leliana gasped. "You don't mean? His predisposition to--oh, you _do_ mean that." Leliana sat back, impressed. "Now that, that is a scandal."

"So we have bribery material--"

"And blackmail, if it comes to that--"

"Oh, it assuredly will. Now the only question is where we will get that quantity of dragonfruit...those are only native to Par Vollen."

"I have a contact. I will make arrangements."

"Alright, that is one element taken care of, but what about--?"

They bent their heads together, talking rapidly for some time as the candles burned lower and lower.

"And then," Leliana said, "I will send assassins."

"No assassins!"

"You have to admit, Josie! In _this_ particular case, I don't think we can get out of sending assassins."

"But--"

"How else do you expect to remove this troublesome individual known as the Mauvesque Menace? Frankly I think Chalons would be better off without him."

Josephine was at a loss for words. "Very well," she agreed, grudgingly. "We send assassins, and once the way is clear, we will, through our proxy in Galfain, hold a masquerade ball--"

"--where you will have arranged for the duel to take place--"

"--and while everyone is distracted with the spectacle, your people will raid the catacombs beneath the villa--"

"--and once the idol is in our hands, we will have something to approach the Alemarri with. Excellent. You should begin to draft a missive that we might send a messenger. Have we anyone who speaks the language?"

"Not here, but if you recall our associate from the Gramphier League, he knows a linguist who specializes. I will have my people approach him."

"Excellent. Then we are agreed upon the first phase of the operation." Leliana yawned. "I think we can risk going to sleep now. The poison I selected for Lord Hellstrom will take several months to take effect, anyway. We can consider further steps tomorrow."

"Mm, yes." Josephine stretched out her aching back and thoughtlessly leaned her head on Leliana's shoulder, as she had often done when they were girls. Leliana's hand came up to mindlessly comb through Josephine's thick hair.

"We should get to bed, then."

Neither of them made the move to go.

"That was fun," Josephine said through a yawn.

"Fun is hardly the point." Leliana's fingers were still in her hair. "This is work that needs doing." She allowed a brief tired smile to come to her lips. "But yes. Fun."

"Almost like we were young again."

Leliana hummed and did not respond.

Leliana had nearly dozed off in the hard chair, and had assumed that Josephine had also, when the other woman drew away and gave her a hard look.

"So," she said, in a tone that belied the fact that she had waited for this precise moment to speak, "Are we simply not going to discuss it?"

"Discuss what?"

"This change in you. This coldness that has only receded someone in this moment." She shook her head. "I've hardly seen you smile at all until tonight."

Leliana made a dismissive sound. "Nonsense."

Josephine frowned. "I had not wanted to bring it up. I had thought our old friendship had grown defunct, a matter of memory and formality. I did not want to pry."

"Josie..."

"Liana, what's happened to you?"

Leliana sighed heavily. She took so long in answering that Josephine had already taken a breath to say something else when she finally did reply. "Maker, what _hasn't_ happened to me?"

Which was not quite an answer. But it was something. Josephine turned fully to face her and traced her fingers down her cheek. "I've missed you," she admitted. " _This_ you. The Leliana I knew in Val Royeux, who laughed and sang and loved."

The Nightingale closed her eyes. "I am still that Leliana. I am just older now."

Josephine lifted her chin. "Well. I am older now, too." She placed her other hand on Leliana's knee, just above the greave. "Do you not miss it?" she whispered. "The way things were before?"

Leliana was so tired. She had not Josephine's ability for bloody-minded wakefulness. She fell into the familiar kiss like one fell asleep--without conscious intention, but with a certain inevitability. By the time they broke away, all but one of the candles had burned away to nothing.

"I do miss it," she mumbled into Josephine's mouth. She never would have done this were she more lucid, she thought. Josephine deserved better than the likes of her.

It had been one thing when they were callous, innocent children, running wild through the Orlesian night, giggling behind their fans at parties, nailing underthings to chanter's boards and kissing in dark corners. It hadn't meant anything. They had just been friends, and there had been Marjolaine.

Now Marjolaine was ten years dead--all of her that did not live on in Leliana herself.

There would never be a 'before' again. But how would she tell that to Josephine, when her watery eyes flickered so hopefully in the dying candlelight?

"I do miss it," she said again, weakly.

"As do I." Josephine dropped her gaze. No, there was no use protecting her, Leliana realized. Josephine was no innocent. She knew there would never be a 'before' again.

"We can," she said tiredly, "continue this conversation in the morning. I'll walk you to your room, no?"

She slipped her arm around Josephine's shoulders, extinguishing the last candle as she left the room. Josephine yawned again and held tight to her waist, warm and full.

But maybe, she thought blearily, maybe there could be an 'after'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i mentioned a christening and i realize that in this universe it would actually be an an andrastening but just roll with it ok guys?


	19. Cole/Cassandra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for A on ao3  
> congrats on having submitted another REALLY HARD one

She doesn't appreciate his attempts to help.

She does not _want_ to be comforted. Not about Anthony, not about her faith, not about anything. She is a private woman by nature, and even if she was not, she does not want to discuss it.

She is not a woman who was made to be comforted. She is a battered shield and a well-used sword, a wall and bulwark for others. Does a fortress need comfort? Does a shield require tenderness?

"You are one of the good ones," he tells her. "You care." It is what she wants to hear. It is, so desperately, what she wants to hear. Of course that's why he says it, soft and soothing, a balm to the soul. It is exactly why she cannot be permitted to hear it.

"You don't have faith because of the spirit," he says, his voice an ecstatic whisper, "The spirit came because of your faith." As though she still has any faith. As though faith would have been enough. How many of history's greatest monsters had faith? 

"You are like me," he says, hesitant, reaching. "Spirit touching a body. Body touching a spirit. Faith. You are like me."

That's the worst of all.

She keeps him at arm's length. It is natural. She is known to be suspicious of his kind. Nobody questions her distance.

That no longer becomes an option after one unfortunate fight. It is a dragon, of all things, of all ironies. It catches them at night, in camp. She has no armor, no shield; her hair is unbound and her eyes still full of sleep. All she has is her sword, never far from hand, and her instincts. She lunges, long before anyone else reacts--she even succeeds. But that doesn't stop the beast from biting into her unarmored side and throwing her like a ragdoll. She begins to get up, to rejoin the battle--it is what she is good for, it is _all_ she is good for--but finds that she cannot. All there is is pain, hot bright and flowing, and a ragged scream that she does not realize at first is her own. Surely she has suffered worse injuries. Surely she has lived through worse. It is only that just now she cannot imagine when.

A presence appears at her side--she is blind, or her eyes are squeezed shut, she can't tell--and it soothes. In this state, she will reject nothing. She clings to the warmth, the soft hand in her calloused one, grasping the gentle words when there is nothing else but fire and pain.

It is the weakest, the most humiliated, she has felt in a long, long time, being held like that, until medical help arrives. They tell her her quick thinking might have saved them all, given them the time they needed to regroup and live through the day.

It is tempting to keep her distance, after that. Even more tempting than it was before.

Somehow, she can't.

Not when he is clearly so lonely, so lost, unsure of his place in an unfamiliar world. It is too familiar, too close, to ignore.

Still. She does not like to be comforted. But now, she realizes, with Cole, in some ways it isn't really about her. To comfort others itself a comfort--that is nothing unique to spirits.

Much easier, though, much more natural, is what happens in the Fade. She is on her guard--mystified, wondrous, but always on her guard--but he is crouched over, large hands splayed over eyes and ears.

"Wrong," he is muttering, "All wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong--"

It is, she finds, surprisingly easy, to lower her shield, her sword, to go and kneel beside him, and wrap her arms around the lanky, bent form, and simply be a presence.

Sometimes, it is all one can do.


	20. Leliana/Sera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for arcticwaters on ao3 and tumblr

The Fade is still heavy on Sera's mind, much later. It seems to cling to her like tar. She closes her eyes, and it's there--the nothing. The empty. The little pieces of nothing.

It didn't help, that eyes closed meant darkness, meant nothing. Eyes closed meant she had no guarantee that she was there, that she was real. Sleep was worse. Sleep would be like going back there. Sleep would mean the dreams, that awful green, that shifting nightmare, the _nothing._

No, better stay awake.

It had been a few days.

She had been keeping active, keeping busy, keeping on her feet. First she had practiced with her bow, until her shots were sailing so wide away from their targets that people were starting to complain. She'd told them to eat it, but she didn't shoot anymore. She could barely keep her vision steady anyway. She considered pranks--pranks were always good, always fun, always good for a laugh, and a laugh would fill the nothing, wouldn't it?--but somehow even her inventive mind can think of nothing. It can barely string two thoughts together, let alone two words.

Andraste's  _tits,_ she hated this.

She resorted to pacing, or maybe stalking was a better word. Stalking through Skyhold, avoiding the stillness that might have lead to sleep, which would have lead to dreams.

Somehow she ended up in the rookery, too delirious to remember why she never went there. Her eyes fell on the shrine.

She collapsed to her knees in front of it and hung her head. "Lady," she hissed at it,  "You sure have got some _explaining_ to do."

"Prayer, of a kind." Nightingale. She was here. Sera forgot to be afraid of her. She couldn't remember why she'd ever been afraid of any mortal.

"Yea, s'right," Sera mumbled. "Praying."

There was a quiet rustle of heavy clothing, and Leliana sat beside her. "It's a nice shrine," she commented. "I haven't used it since we arrived here."

Sera's eyes slid over to her. "Yea? Didn't figure a Chantry sister wasn't the religious type."

Leliana said nothing, still staring at the shrine.

"Cos you know, I heard of you," Sera went on. "Red Jennies talk, right? I've heard plenty about you. Heard you went a little harder on the believing than most people, back during that whole Blight titfest. So was that fake, or what?"

"No," Leliana said eventually. "It wasn't fake."

There were lines under her eyes. Whether from age or exhaustion, it was hard to tell. In that moment, they made her look so lost, at least as lost as Sera felt.

"I mean," Sera said, "you've got to believe it all, haven't you? Cos otherwise, what's the point? If it's not real, then what's out there? Nothing." She giggled, terrified and hiccuping. "There _can't_ be nothing. There just can't. That'd be too horrible."

"Maybe it's best there be nothing," Leliana said. "Better nothing than a Maker who does..." Her mouth twisted bitterly.

"Yeah, maybe," Sera muttered. "But you just say that because you really _do_ believe, don't you? You think there's something. You don't even realize how awful the nothing would be. You haven't _seen_ it."

Leliana turned her head slowly to face her. "This is about the--"

"Don't! Just, don't, don't mention it. I don't want to hear about it. It's bad enough having to see it all the time." She shifted, hugging her knees to her chest. "I came here to find out, you know? If it was all real. See for myself. Seemed like a right opportunity, yeah? Make some coin, help a few people, find out about the truth. I'm big on truth. But the truth..."

"Yes," Leliana said softly, "The truth is like that. You learn to live with it. One way or another."

"That so?" Sera's eyelids drooped. She fought it, fought the warmth of the candles in the shrine, and the warmth of the other woman, but it was no use.

Leliana put an arm around her, and then another. Sera felt her chest rise and fall as she sighed. "Sleep, Sera," she said, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I will be here."

Sera slept.


	21. Dorian/Solas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for gangsterdaddy on ao3. somehow managed to write this without doing either what you wanted or the very intriguing idea my girlfriend suggested instead. sorry!

"It's your move," Dorian said helpfully.

"I'm aware," Solas replied.

"Just making sure you haven't dozed off," said Dorian.

Dorian managed to be quiet for nearly three seconds this time. "Do you always take entire eternities to make a move?"

Solas didn't miss the double meaning. Mostly because the slight waggle of his eyebrows made it difficult to ignore. "Chess is a game of patience, Dorian," he said. "If you're finding you have trouble with that, which I find unsurprising, may I suggest you play a quicker game more suited to your faculties instead? Such as noughts and crosses, perhaps?"

"I think you're just angry because you look exactly like your pawns," Dorian sniffed. "Admit it, you do."

After Solas had lost his preferred chess partner in Iron Bull, he had taken to playing with Dorian, as he spent much less time nervously walking away at the sight of him than Cullen. Dorian claimed Solas was a better chess partner than Cullen if only because he responded to teasing insults much more adequately.

The casual barbs were an absolutely essential part of the game, for them.

Solas had been winning lately. He imagined that Dorian was quite cross with that, on some level--after all, a lowly, raggedy elven apostate, daring to win game after game from a Tevinter magister whose ancestors had sunk Arlathan into the ground? Perish the thought. Barbs did nothing to actually distract Solas from the game, either. He had managed to play with the Iron Bull entirely in their heads, in between skirmishes with hostile spirits, and he was too used to his and Dorian's usual insulting banter to be distracted by it.

And so, Dorian had occasionally attempted to use flirtation instead.

It had started out as small things at first. An eyebrow waggle here. A casual touch on the arm there. A few moves ago, when they had exchanged bishops, Dorian had moved his piece so soon after Solas had moved his that he conveniently managed to cover Solas's hand with his own while taking his sacrificed bishop. And smiled warmly as he did so.

Solas supposed Dorian thought this would unsettle him into making a mistake.

It didn't work, but the game ended in stalemate anyway.

"It happens that way sometimes," Dorian said lightly. "You both take forever, and then nothing happens. Disappointing, but there is always next time." The corner of his lip crawled upward.

"Indeed," Solas said, rising. Then he stepped around the table and lightly dragged his fingers across Dorian's shoulder and collarbones, before loosely coming to rest at the juncture of his jaw and neck.

Immediately, Dorian went completely stiff. Solas bent down to murmur in his ear, his lips brushing his ear. "Though next time, should you wish to tell me something directly, you need only ask."

He finished that by raking his nails over Dorian's scalp, causing him to shudder. He could feel the man's eyes burning into the back of his head as he walked away.

Solas just barely failed to suppress a faint smirk.

Let's see how focused Dorian would be able to remain in their __next game.


	22. Sten/Zevran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for hooplah on ao3

"Is it true?" Zevran questioned. "What you told Morrigan?"

They were on watch tonight. Watch was always easier with another person to keep oneself awake with. And with nine people traveling, two were easy to spare.

The real surprise was their fearless and very strange leader's willingness to leave a pair of murderers on watch together.

Sten didn't reply until two further queries. "Is _what_ true?" he said finally.

Zevran gave a sly sidealong glance. "Come now, don't be coy. Surely you realize."

The fire they had kept going in the night was burning low now. Sten made no move to stir it to life. "I realize nothing."

At this point Zevran could no longer resist a snicker. "Why, Qunari sex, of course. I assumed you were trying to unsettle her, but I do wonder."

Sten merely grunted.

"For instance, if you and I were to couple, how high would the risk of death for me be? I am somewhat less fragile in the body than our dear swamp witch. I've survived quite a lot. Would you provide something for me to bite down on, or would I have to provide something of my own? As a matter of fact, I possess a jeweled dagger which looks very fetching indeed between my teeth--perhaps you would like to draw me nude, first? I know you are a cultured man, with an appreciation for art. Surely you must have an appreciation for the ideal male form--"

"You and I," said Sten, unwillingly imagining this jeweled dagger, "will not couple."

"Are you certain?" Zevran said. "I am a very persuasive elf. And a curious one. Terribly curious."

"And soon," Sten said, still troublingly unable to get the image out of his mind in an unusual show of indiscipline, "you will be a disappointed one."

"Perhaps my survivability would be better if I wore armor? At least a helmet, if nothing else."

The image of the elf wearing a helmet and naught else would stubbornly not remove itself form his mind's eye. "Cease."

"Or maybe it would help if you tied me down first? That way, I would not be able to wriggle and hurt myself. Does that interest you?"

This was surely vengeance on Morrigan's behalf. There could be no other explanation.

Three more hours remained in the watch. Sten groaned.

\--

The fact that Zevran did not ultimately leave Ferelden a disappointed elf was a fact that Sten would not be putting into his report to the Arishok.

The fact that his curiosity was ultimately indulged on a large number of occasions over the course of that year was a fact that Sten would not be telling anybody, ever.

The collection of charcoal sketches, done in private, he had meant to burn. There was no place for such things in proper Qunari life. He had every reason to destroy them. He should not have made them in the first place.

But, they were good drawings. There could be no harm in appreciating skill and beauty. He would keep them. In private.

\--

Zevran had once been offered a tour of Par Vollen's capital by a dear old friend.

He'd never managed to take it. He'd been called away by his duty to the Crows--his duty in destroying them, namely. He'd been busy since the Blight. Very busy. That left little time for checking in on old friends.

Until now, when his good work lead him to requiring a place to lie low for a time, some unreachable place where the Crows would not easily bother him.

"I like the weather here," Zevran was saying to the new Arishok, though he would always just be 'Sten' to him. "Hot, like in my own country, though much more humid. Still, I prefer it to Ferelden's mud and snow and driving rain."

"Mm," said the Arishok. He was about as talkative as ever. The new job, and the name that came with it, hadn't changed that.

"Nothing could compel me to return to that place," he declared. "Though we did make a _few_ good memories there, didn't we?"

"We did," the Arishok agreed, and said no more.

Zevran laughed. "It is good to see that you haven't changed, my friend, even if your title has."

He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw a hint of a smile pulling at the other man's lips.

"You may use my quarters for the duration of your visit," the Arishok said, some time later. They were modest quarters, for the war leader of a nation, and sparse, but that was to be expected. They were largely bare of decoration, save for a few paintings adorning the walls. Including a rather famliar one of...

Zevran grinned. "So. You kept the sketches?"

The Arishok clasped his hands behind his back.

"It is unmistakably your work."

"Perhaps so."

Zevran chuckled warmly. "At least," he said, "I was right in my suspicions about your appreciation of the male form."

"That," the former Sten said, "was hardly a secret."


	23. Cole/Rhys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Morgan_Inkeye on AO3   
> in this au wynne died to save rhys, not evangeline

Cole was different now, that was for sure. It would be harder to find Rhys like this, unable to make people forget, unable to pluck thoughts from their heads. But he was a mortal now, no longer merely spirit, but something in between, and he had his own desires. There was nothing wrong with that, with having a goal beyond the happiness of others--he would find him, sooner or later.

It was still strange, to be like this, so unmalleable, so present. Still stranger, but less so, every day.

Perhaps one day he'd even get used to it.

Time passed differently, now that he was like this. It flowed only one way, one moment by the time, the moments piling to minutes and hours and days, the days piling to weeks and months. He went on and on, asking the same question to everyone he met. Sometimes he played Maryden's lute for a meal or passage onward. Sometimes he helped, just to help.

Joyfully, he found that people helped him back.

He asked where Rhys was, where he'd last been seen. Most hadn't heard of any such person. Some had heard of a prophet by that name, wandering the hills and preaching of salvation in the coming darkness--but that was like to  be a legend. Some recalled a mage by that name, who had once resided in the White Spire--but he had died, they said. Him and his heroic mother, both. He sought a dead man, and would do good to give up and move on.

But Cole knew that wasn't true. Rhys's mother had died, that was true, but she had died to save him. Rhys lived. Cole would find him.

He had set out in the spring, and it was just spring when he caught a familiar feeling in the Fade. His home was distant to him now, and he would not return--it had become hostile to him in his absence, and he would never feel its embrace again--but still it called to him sometimes, an invisible string connecting Cole to those he loved.

Now it was calling him to Rhys. He knew it.

Only a day later, he found him at a crossroads, still in robes, though plainer ones now. He looked different; older, with silver at his temples and the Fade shining from his eyes. He'd been waiting for him. The Fade had called him, too.

"Rhys," he said, cracking open. _Faith._

"Cole," he replied, beaming. _Compassion._

Cole threw his arms around him, feeling the warmth of the man's body, the strength of his arms, the warmth of his breath on his hair. Alive, alive, so much more than alive--he was _like him,_ mortal and spirit both. The Fade crackled just underneath his skin, unseen to all but Cole,  and he was more beautiful and more resplendent

"You're like me," Rhys marveled. "How?"

"It took me a long time," Cole said, "To find myself. And then, I had to find you. That took a long time, too."

"Well, you found me." The corners of his eyes crinkled with his warm smile. "I'm sorry it took such a journey. I would have had you stay."

"It's alright. I needed it."

Rhys had drawn back, but now he extended a tentative hand. "Will...will you stay? This world could use compassion, as well as faith. There's much to be done."

Cole nodded, and took his hand. There was, there always would be. Now, they had a chance to do it together, neither quite spirit, neither quite mortal, but meeting somewhere in the crossroads.


	24. Fenris/Zevran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember who requested this but here you go

There was a scream, followed by a sharp, gurgling choke, followed by a dull thud. Fenris noted it, but did not move. It had come from behind the door where Magister Vitruvius had gone with the slave girl. A moment later, the girl--no older than fourteen--darted from the room. Her eyes widened briefly at the sight of Fenris, but when it became apparent he would not stop her, she fled.

A moment after that, another elven figure emerged from the room. He didn't move like any elf Fenris had ever seen. He sauntered. He even swaggered. He was cleaning the blood from his shortsword, casual as a Sunday afternoon stroll.

Fenris watched him, unmoving.

"Will you be reporting me?" the Crow--Fenris supposed he had to be a Crow, from his armor and his accent--asked, acknowledging Fenris for the first time.

Fenris thought about it. Danarius had ordered him to wait here and guard the door to the Magisterium, where slaves were not permitted. Vitruvius had been no ally of Danarius's, and not under his protection. Danarius would likely be pleased with this development--Vitruvius had been against the motion Danarius sought to pass, and now he was dead.

"No," Fenris said.

The Crow chuckled. He reminded him something of himself--dark skin, pale hair, even the tattoos. But the similarities were superficial. Nothing about this man was like Fenris, that much was clear. He'd heard the Dalish tattooed their faces, but this man couldn't be Dalish. Everything about him declared him cosmopolitan. "Ah, so the striking fellow speaks. And _such_ a voice! One word and I could listen to you speak for hours."

Fenris said nothing. What an idiotic sentiment, he thought. He didn't have enough to say to fill even one hour, let alone several.

The Crow shrugged. "Well, if you are not reporting me, I must be going. I've many important appointments to keep. If you would be so kind as to point me towards the exit? I came in from the window, but I'm afraid I've lost my grapple. Terribly embarrassing. But good story for later."

Fenris pointed, finding himself halfway between confusion and amusement. City guards would surely cut this man down within the next five minutes, and he was almost sorry for it.

The Crow actually gave a little bow in thanks, and over his shoulder concluded: "Then I shall be going. And if you ever need anyone killed, do consider House Arainai." He whistled as he disappeared around the corne.r

Fenris watched him swagger away, a little entranced. Dead elf walking, but what an elf. For half a breath, he wondered what it would be like to live in Antiva, and just as quickly dismissed it. Antiva had nothing to do with him and his life.

He didn't hear the ensuing fight--the inner rotunda was too far from the main entrance, and surely such a ridiculous person would go straight to the main entrance--but he halfway hoped the assassin had gotten away.

 

\--

The buzzing of the tavern filled Fenris's ears, distant, somehow, after all the wine. The long trek from the coast had left him tired, and the others had already left. Zevran chuckled again, and drank. "Very funny that I should run into you again, my striking friend."

"And here we have been," said Fenris, "Speaking for hours. You got your wish after all."

Zevran quirked an eyebrow. "You remembered that?"

"How could I not? I'd never seen an elf who wasn't a slave. And you remembered, did you not?"

"Ah, yes, I suppose I did. But you are _very_ striking." Zevran paused. "Of course," he said, "At the time, I was a slave myself."

Fenris blinked. He couldn't imagine Zevran as a slave. He seemed no different now than their brief encounter years ago, while Fenris could hardly reconcile the memory of himself in Danarius's service with his present existence. "And how did you get away?"

Zevran laughed. "I tried very hard to die. Life is funny like that, isn't it?"

"Perhaps I will see it your way after another bottle," Fenris muttered, drinking deep.

"Yes, perhaps you will. I don't suppose you've still a master that needs killing?"

"Not any longer. Not one with a heart in his ribcage."

Zevran smirked. "Satisfying, isn't it?"

Fenris wished he could have said it was true.

"More satisfying yet," Zevran added, "to destroy the entire organization that enslaved one in the first place."

Fenris snorted, nearly choking on his wine. "The entire Tevinter Imperium? _That_ would be something to behold."

"Oh, why not?" Zevran shrugged. "It's something to do with one's time. You might be surprised how far you'd get. And either way, a wonderful way to work off frustrations, no?"

Fenris hmphed.

"And after all," Zevran said, eyes bright, "you are so very striking. Who knows the things you could do?" He shrugged. "But, ah, I am getting ahead of myself. There's more to life than killing. Pleasure is important, also."

Fenris drank. The Hanged Man was beginning to thin out. As far as striking men went, Fenris noted, Zevran was no slouch.

The former Crow rose from his seat, and gave Fenris a smile and another little bow. "I am off to bed. But think on what I've said, no?"

Fenris watched him saunter away. He thought on what he'd said. Then, he finished his wine, rose, and followed him.


	25. Celene/Female Trevelyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for psykopsky on tumblr

"Ah, Celene," Lady Trevelyan said, settling into her overlarge chair and swishing something dark in her glass. "So glad to see you have arrived safely. I trust the journey was comfortable?"

"Comfortable enough," Empress Celene replied.

The worst part about Lady Trevelyan, Celene thought, was her taste.

Most powerful woman and the world, and she had the nerve--the _audacity--_ to parade in front of the Empress of Orlais in ill-fitting grey sleepwear.

Perhaps that was the point. Trevelyan had crushed much of southern Thedas beneath her muddy bootheels, so she got to summon Celene like a common vassal and wear whatever she liked in front of her, while Celene herself had dressed to the nines. Her back and neck strained under her bodice, her swollen feet pulsed in her heeled shoes, and her pearls lay heavy on her breast. One would never have been able to tell she had traveled hundreds of miles to hold audience with the Inquisitor, from the immaculate state of her hair and skin. That was the problem with power--appearances really could be everything. The Empress of Orlais had to be seen arriving at Skyhold with a retinue, with full fanfare, with her chin held high, as though coming here had been her own idea.

But Trevelyan didn't even care. It was atrocious, and intoxicating.

"Is there a reason," Celene said delicately, steepling her fingers, "that you have requested my presence with such urgency? The journey was long, and--"

"Now, now, my Empress," Trevelyan interrupted, knowing the transgression for what it was and smirking--actually smirking!--all the while, "You'll recall just who ensured that crown remained on your head--and who ensured that that head remained attached to that pretty, pretty neck. Seeing as I saved your life at great personal risk--as my people and I struggle to save all of Thedas while you concern yourself with petty games of crowns--I think I am owed a certain amount of deference, no?"

Celene said nothing. Trevelyan was hardly even a proper noble. A younger child of an unremarkable Marcher family, destined for nothing save service to the Chantry, a troublemaking upstart with no sense of decorum.

The chamber was deserted, the hour late. The servants had all been dismissed.

Trevelyan shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, slowly twirling the tip of her foot in a circle. "Does something trouble you, Celene? Do you find our arrangement unsatisfactory?"

"Of course not," Celene said smoothly. "I find it agreeable to the extreme."

"Come here."

Celene stepped forward. The Empress of Orlais, reduced to jumping at the beck and call of an upjumped backwater noble wearing ugly pajamas. Trevelyan sipped her swill with one hand, and with the other reached up to finger the string of pearls around around Celene's neck. Her knuckles brushed Celene's collarbone.

"Inquisitor," Celene said, a note of warning in her voice. Trevelyan ignored her, and lazily introduced a leg under the hem of Celene's dress, hooking her foot around Celene's ankle and letting it rest there. She wasn't even _pretty,_ Celene thought. Her face was ruddy and blotched, and she made no effort to conceal this fact. There was a gap in her teeth, and her nose had been broken more than once.

No, she wasn't pretty. Her appeal lay elsewhere entirely.

"Do you find this degrading, my Empress?" she questioned.

Celene said nothing. Trevelyan's fist closed around the pearls. She yanked, and the necklace broke, tiny pearls, each worth weeks of any servants' pay, scattered noisily across the floor. Celene shivered, feeling sweat bead all over her skin.  She had had enough of their little game for now.

Trevelyan continued to smile in her lazy, boorish manner as she reached up to remove Celene's mask, as Celene caught her wrist before she could--hard, hard enough to hurt--and took it off herself. She smiled as Celene ripped the hideous grey garment off her muscled body, sending the straining buttons on it the way of Celene's pearls, smiled through the vicious, biting kiss. It only made Celene want to try harder, to make that infuriating smirk disappear, to keep those ruddy lips busy with more useful activities.

They actually did talk of politics, after the rampant tension had been relieved and either of them could think straight again. Celene had some of what Trevelyan had been drinking--it came in an unlabelled bottle and burned all the way down--and idly brushed her mussed pale hair with her fingers. Her bodice, which had caused her such trouble on the journey, was now missing most of its clasps. Her skirt was torn in two places. Her shoes weren't even anywhere in sight.

"So," Trevelyan said, her masses of red hair spilling across the sheets, "same time next month?"

Celene stretched. She would be sore in the morning. "Of course."

"I'll have a pretext to be in Val Royeux."

"You shall be received with all possible pomp and circumstance. And you'll respect it, too, when you're in _my_ court."

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. "Of course, my Empress. Perish the thought!"

Celene departed a week later, with all appropriate airs and displays. It was a good thing, she mused, that as Empress, she would hardly ever be wearing the same dress in public twice anyway. Lady Trevelyan went through them quite fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i imagine this trevelyan was with sera for a while and then got dumped for being a power hungry bag of dicks, so they Both got dumped by their elven girlfriends and are using each other for a rebound. symmetry!


	26. Solas/Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Beckily on ao3

Fenris, leader of the great slave rebellion, had just about had enough of this Dread Wolf character, whoever he was.

For a while he thought he'd been getting the guy's mail by accident, so to speak. The former slaves who had rallied around him--entirely against his express will--had taken to calling him the Dread Wolf. An absolutely hilarious play on the meaning of 'Fenris' in Tevene, which Fenris found, admittedly, at least a little amusing, if mostly annoying. 'The Dread Wolf'. Honestly. Like the elven god Merrill occasionally swore by? Only a complete prick would go around calling himself that, or allowing others to. But despite all of Fenris's protests, the nickname stuck.

A lot of things happened to Fenris despite his protests. Such as being made the de facto leader of the rebellion in the first place. None of these people seemed to understand that he wasn't a leader. He wasn't one to shout slogans or rally the masses or lead grand uprisings. That was the purvey of Anders' ilk and other people who didn't know what was good for them.

Yet here he was, in the crumbling newly-established headquarters of the rebellion, running around making sure supply chains were maintained, forming alliances, helping the helpless--not knowing what was good for him.

It was in this position that he began to receive communication by messenger from the other Dread Wolf. Who, first, had seemed a little peeved that Fenris had so ungraciously stolen his name (not his fault!), and, second, was interested in an alliance.

Fenris had considered. He had gathered intelligence. The Dread Wolf seemed to be some kind of pan-elven revolutionary who worked primarily from the shadows. Alright, Fenris had thought. So far, so good. There could be room to ally there, certainly.

And he had gathered yet more intelligence, and discovered, after weeks of effort, that the Dread Wolf was some kind of fringe mage radical who sought to bring down the Veil and merge the Fade realm of magic and demons with the real world.

Which was, first, complete crazy nonsense. And, second, the worst possible thing Fenris could have conceivably imagined even in his wildest nightmares.

"I'll take that down as a 'no'," the dazed messenger of the Dread Wolf said, after Fenris had finished his tirade.

But the missives did not stop there. The Dread Wolf was persistent.

He offered Fenris access to his spy network. Fenris refused.

He offered Fenris vast resources. Fenris refused, and sent along a rude gesture for the messenger to replicate.

He offered Fenris an army, and sent a tribute of a fine greatsword. Fenris refused, and offered a tribute of some dog shit in a canvas bag.

Fenris was getting tired of this, much as he admired the other Dread Wolfs persistence.

However, it really was starting to get to be too much. The latest missive had stated briefly ' _I find you intriguqing. Dinner?',_ along with a tribute of flowers and a box of chocolate.

It just went to show how badly this rebellion leader business was getting to his head, that he was even vaguely considering accepting the invitation--if only so that he could make rude gestures in person.

Honestly, Fenris thought, glowering as he scribbled a response. 'The Dread Wolf'?

Terrible.


	27. Justice/Nathaniel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for ushauz on tumblr

Hawke, whose chief characteristic was Nosiness, noticed right away.

From the first moment their group found the lost Grey Warden in the Deep Roads, they saw it. The way Anders' eyes lit up in relief and recognition the way they hadn't in years now. The way the other man's eyes lit up too, in surprise and joy--and something sadder, something stickier.

The way the two of them embraced, clasped each other close like old friends, brothers--or, well, not brothers. But perhaps something that rhymed.

The way Anders seemed to become a completely different person while the other Warden was with them for the journey to the surface. He was smiling. And casually touching another person outside of a medical context. And laughing. Anders, laughing! Maker, he seemed actually alive. He was practically glowing.

Hawke gave Varric a meaningful look. The two of them had a whole lexicon of subtly different meaningful looks that they shared, and Varric apprehended the meaning of this one right away.

Varric, his chief characteristic being Meddlesomeness, invited Nathaniel to join them at the Hanged Man. He'd buy him a drink. His treat. Didn't he deserve a drink after that ordeal?

Men far cleverer than Nathaniel had tried and failed to talk their ways out of one of Varric's ideas.

And so it happened the Anders' old _friend_ joined them at the Hanged Man for almost an entire evening. Isabela was not in on the Hawke-and-Varric meaningful look exchange, but they were pretty sure she had figured it out independently, from the way she was smirking. She wore the face of a woman barely containing her excitement at the prospect of cluing in an oblivious Merrill later.

The two Wardens were sitting perilously close together, Hawke's meaningful look said. Their knees were brushing together.

 _And is it me, or does Nathaniel look a little sad? Jealousy, perhaps?_ Varric's meaningful look replied.

 _Ooh. That had to be it,_ Hawke's meaningful look said in turn. _Jealousy. But who of?_

The night wore on. Tales were exchanged. Patrons filtered out of the mildewy establishment. Isabela volunteered to take Merrill home when the latter began dozing off in her chair. And then--Anders chanced to briefly step outside.

Hawke and Varric looked at each other, meaningfully. Then at Nathaniel.

"So," Hawke said. "You knew our favorite healer back in the day."

"You gotta tell us what it was like," Varric chimed in.

"Different," Nathaniel said eventually, the joviality weakly present in his face when at the table all but fled now. "Very different."

"Oh?"

"We were close."

"Close? How close?" Varric kicked Hawke under the table. _Don't be_ too _obvious,_ his meaningful look said.

Nathaniel shrugged.  His eyes were far away, and Varric had bought him an awful lot of drinks by that point. He hardly seemed to be speaking to them so much as to himself, or perhaps to a memory. "Long marches on patrol. Talking long into the night. He was different then. You don't even know how different. I wish you could have known him. Known him properly, I mean."

Hawke leaned in, their chin on their fist. "Different how?"

Nathaniel's face, which in its very structure had a character of melancholy, only fell further. "Less hurt. Less angry. He was...innocent."

Huh, thought Varric, recalling a few of Isabela's stories from the Pearl in Denerim. Innocent was not the word he would have thought of. But, he supposed, love made blind fools of us all.

Nathaniel stared at his foamy mug. "He saw beauty in everything. Even in the darkest, vilest places. Now it's like...all he can see is the darkness."

Finally he took a long pull, and sniffed. "And when they both disappeared...I thought...well, I always thought I'd be the one to--" He cut himself off. He suddenly seemed to realize who he was talking to--practically complete strangers, though ones who had been friendly, and who had bought him an awful lot of drinks that night. He flushed, muttering deflections just in time for Anders to reappear.

At the sight of him, Nathaniel rose sharply. "Could I talk to--?"

"Yes," Anders said quickly. He didn't look quite so animated as before, and barely acknowledged the rest of the group before following Nathaniel to the exit.

"Someone's in trouble," Varric chuckled under his breath, watching them go.

"Don't worry," Hawke said. "I'll extract all the details tomorrow. I'm good at that."

"That you are, Hawke." Varric nodded slowly, confidently. "That you most certainly are."

Beyond the Hanged Man, where Hawke and Varric shared the last great meaningful look of the evening, beyond the semi-respectable streets of Lowtown, the two Wardens could be seen entering Darktown. They could have been seen making their way to the place where the lantern hung, where it was sometimes lit.

They could have been seen--but weren't, for nobody saw them--standing close, talking, just talking. And one of the figures could have been seen to softly glow in the dimness of the underground. They could have been seen drawing close for a time, and slowly swaying to a melody unheard by any but a spirit of the Fade--dancing, if it could be called that, in a dark roomed just barely illumined blue.

The following day Nathaniel would leave on Warden business. Anders would make up some story to satisfy Hawke. Hawke would hear what they expected to hear, and Varric would later write a sordid tale about it.

And Justice would carry the memory, brief, quiet, and beautiful, and recall the spirit he'd once been.


	28. Casssandra/Isabela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for barsark on ao3

Cassandra understood the need to obtain the mysterious elven artifact. Really. She did. She was a woman of faith, and though she did not understand why the Inquisition strictly needed such an artifact, she trusted (wholly! completely!) that the Inquisitor did.

So, too, did Cassandra understand the need to enlist the pirates. The mysterious elven artifact so essential to the continued operation of the Inquisition happened to be located on a remote, contested location  most-reliably accessed by these Raiders of the Waking Sea. Cassandra had faith that it was really, truly, genuinely the only way, that no other Inquisition resource even came close to accomplishing the same goals.

But she drew the line at inviting the damn pirates to Skyhold for a week of revelry and feasting, and allowing them to run wild through the castle. That, Cassandra could admit, she didn't understand at all.

She had heard plenty of the leader of these raiders, the self-styled Admiral Isabela. She had once sat and impatiently listened to an excessively long story in which she featured. Cassandra had to say, Varric's extended description of her wasn't all that accurate. Sure, she was well-muscled, and obviously deadly, and she wore quite a lot of gold jewelry, and yes, her hat and the feather in it managed to dwarf even Iron Bull's horns, to his shame and awe. And she was, indeed, an uncompromising leader, and she clearly did enjoy a good time. But the rest was blatant exaggeration. Her breasts really weren't even _that_ big. 

Pretty big, sure. Maybe the biggest Cassandra had ever seen, not that she was looking. But not _that_ big.

(Later, Varric would innocently claim that he'd never described Isabela's breasts in  _Tale of the Champion,_ and that this was entirely Cassandra's imagination at work, for which she would elbow him in the shoulder harder than was perhaps strictly necessary.)

What Varric hadn't lied about was the woman's penchant for truly awful, horrible turns of sexual phrase.

Cassandra had been sitting in the corner of Skyhold's tavern, listening to her carry on, and suffering, for hours now.

"Grey your warden"? What did that even mean? She took out her dagger and started cleaning out the dirt from under her fingernails, glowering.

"Shank your Jory"? Just what in the Void was a Jory?

"Master your taint" was pretty good, she supposed. But the rest were awful. Just awful.

Isabela had noticed Cassandra pull a face at "dwarf your beard" back on the ship. Her eyes had gleamed. A wolfish grin had spread across her face. Since then Cassandra had had no peace.

She supposed the pirate woman thought Cassandra prudish. Ridiculous. Just because she dressed head to toe in the heavy armor of the Maker and talked about faith a lot didn't mean she was prudish. What a ridiculous notion.

"Kaddis your Katie". Alright. That was it. Cassandra had read over three dozen volumes of smutty romantic literature and all of it, even the absolute trash, had better lines than this. She stabbed her dagger into the table and stood up.

"No," she declared, in her most authoritative Seeker of Truth voice. "But he does besiege your castle." There. That was a pretty good one.

The tavern fell silent. A couple jaws dropped. But not Isabela's. Isabela only raised an eyebrow and smiled wider.

"Is that so?" she purred.

Cassandra stood her ground.

"In that case," Isabela said, "I'd say he floats your frigate."

"And _I'd_ say," said Cassandra, "that he plucks your lotus flower."

"Or maybe," Isabela said, dangerously, "he satisfies a demand of your Qun."

"That's offensive," Iron Bull muttered, chuckling.

The entire patronage of the tavern had gathered around them in a circle, hushed, not-so-subtly placing bets.

"I rather think not," Cassandra said, cold as frost. "I rather think he thunders through your stables."

Isabela stepped closer, in her swashbuckler's manner of exaggeratedly swaying her hips. "He puddings your peach?" she tried.

"He claims the precious pearl of your secret depths," Cassandra said, viciously. The assembled audience let out a collective gasp.

Isabela held up her hands. "I know when I'm beat," she admitted.

Coins exchanged hands. The audience slowly lost interest and returned to their drinks and conversations.

"So," Isabela said, "Who's this 'he' you've told me so much personal information about?"

Cassandra stared blankly at her. "He? There is no 'he'. He was purely hypothetical."

"Oh," said Isabela, brightening considerably. "Is there a she?"

Cassandra drew back, coloring. "No. No she, either."

"Great," said Isabela, "then might I interest you in besieging my castle later tonight?"

"I--what?" Cassandra desperately looked to the door, which was all the way across the room. Isabela and her considerable hat and her considerable bosom were blocking the path.

"Thundering through my stables, then?"

"Stop that." Cassandra began edging away to the exit.

"Pluck my lotus flower?" Isabela suggested.

" _Stop at once!"_

Isabela cackled. "You've only got yourself to blame! So, how about it? Claim the precious pearl of--?"

"Argh!"


	29. Alistair/mSurana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for DupreeWolf on ao3

"You'll help me, won't you?" Alistair had asked, before the battle, that painful combination of hopeful desperation and absolute terror in his eyes, that brief tremble in his voice. He'd clasped Surana's hands in his, big warm hands that completely engulfed his, repeating: "Won't you?"

Surana opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say. That he hadn't planned on staying in Dnenerim. That he had a whole world to see. That he'd been locked in a tower all his life and now he wanted to go out and live. That he'd only just turned eighteen, two years younger than Alistair himself. (But that argument held no water. He'd lead them this far, hadn't he?)

And then Alistair said, "Because you're the one that got me into this, you know. It's only fair."

Surana squirmed, looked down, and finally said, "Of course I'll help you."

Maybe it was manipulative. But it was also true. Surana _had_ gotten him into this. He hadn't thought at all of what Alistair had wanted. He'd been so wrapped up in the romance of it all, the lost king returning to the throne amidst a time of darkness, lifted to that high place by his very best friend. It really was his fault.

Of course he had to stay.

And Alistair smiled, a warm and watery smile, sagging in relief and pulling Surana into an embrace. He was over a foot taller and almost twice as broad, and Surana felt like he was the one holding _him._

Still, he did hold him. They'd been through a lot together. Nightmares. Deep Roads. Horrors within and without. It was only fair. Assuming they survived the Blight.

But survive it they did. Both of them. Now Surana had promises to keep. He was celebrated as hero the same day Alistair was crowned. His eyes didn't leave Surana's for nearly the entire ceremony.

He held no official position at court. He was not advisor, nor court mage, nor counselor. But he remained there, in the shadows, whispering in the king's ear, the unseen force behind Ferelden's throne. History would judge him as an opportunist, but how many of those only ended up puppeteering the throne from unwillingness to say 'no'?

There was no decision Alistair wouldn't run by Surana first, no action, no reaction, no legislation, no diplomatic action. As though _Surana_ knew what he was doing, anymore than he had during the Blight.

It was only fair, Surana told himself, but as sleepless nights piled up, Surana began to wonder whether it was truly _fair_ at all.

And then he would look over to where Alistair slept, while he sorted through the pile of documents he'd left on his desk, and watch his still and sleeping face, brow smoother now than ever in waking, and think, no, perhaps not fair, but worth it. Still worth it.

It was perhaps a year when he received the summons to Vigil's Keep. He was halfway through the letter when he began to consider how he was going to break the news to Alistair.

"And you'll be gone _how_ long?" said the king. They were alone, in his chambers, the fireplace burning low. Alistair sat on his bed, looking anxiously up at the much shorter man.

"I don't know," Surana admitted. "A year at least, I think? I can't imagine rebuilding Ferelden's wardens will be a brief or easy task."

"But I need you here."

"Grey Wardens aren't supposed to involve themselves in matters of governance, remember?"

"Too late for that, isn't it?" Alistair chuckled, but there was an edge of bitter to it.

Surana felt that old squirm of guilt. "You know there's already rumors about me? About us?"

"Which ones?" Alistair said dryly.

"I think my favorite is how I'm a evil blood mage controlling the innocent young king's mind through wicked enchantments, steering Ferelden into my own enigmatic but surely heinous ends." And sure, he really was a blood mage, but the rest was completely ridiculous. "And then there's the popular one where we're secretly--well, you know." Surana coughed.

Alistair shrugged. "Well, there's always talk. You can't put too much stock into it."

Surana took a breath. "I don't think I can ignore this summons, Alistair."

The king sighed, his shoulders sagging. He seemed to age before Surana's very eyes. "Alright, then. If that's how it is, that's how it is. I'll figure things out here...somehow."

He looked so lost and helpless. The guilt turned his stomach again. Surana shuffled closer, put a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder.

"You'll do fine," he said. "You've had some practice at it now. You don't need me."

"But I do need you." And there was something in his voice, something in the inflection of the word _need_ that made Surana pause, that made him suddenly wonder if maybe Alistair hadn't been so oblivious to his childish crush back during the Blight as Surana had thought. He'd put that crush aside, but had never quite quashed it. Maybe that was why it had been so easy for him to stay.

Surana drew his hand back, flushing invisibly in the low light. Alistair looked up at him, his features soft and quivering in the firelight.

"You'll come back, won't you?" he said, plaintive, seizing the hand Surana had withdrawn. Sweaty, Surana thought, but he wasn't sure if that was him or Alistair.

"I..." When he was standing and Alistair sitting, their eyes were almost at a level plane.

"You're shivering. Are you cold?"

"No, I..." Too warm, if anything. It was far too warm in here. "I only..."

The kiss was brief and sticky and woefully inexperienced, but in the moment, it washed away all of Surana's doubts and discomforts, all his reluctance and wist.

"You'll come back?" Alistair said again, barely above a whisper. At this distance, he didn't need to speak any louder.

Surana swallowed, running his hand briefly through the kings short hair. "Of course," he replied. "Of course."


	30. Bethany/Leliana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon on ao3

This was it, Bethany thought, absolutely determined as she made the journey from her family's little woodside cottage to Lothering properly. No more excuses. This was going to be the day she went right up to Sister Leliana, looked her square in the eye, and--and--

Well, she wasn't sure what exactly she would do, but it would be decisive.

She'd even put on one of her nicer dresses, out of the two she owned. This one was dyed pale blue, and even had a bit of lace around the collar. Already the hem was getting muddy on the dirt road--no matter how carefully she lifted it, passing carts would still splash muddy water on it. She sighed. She supposed it would have to do.

She spent a while watching the Chantry first. Mother and Carver didn't like her coming here, with all the Templars, but it wasn't as though they could smell the magic on her. As long as she didn't start throwing around fireballs out in the open, it'd be fine. She hadn't done any accidental magic since she'd been nine years old.

Still, she spent a while watching, making absolute sure. Today, she even decided to wait and watch a little longer than usual. Maybe even a lot longer, to be extra safe. Maybe so long that passerby merchants had begun to ask her if everything was quite alright. Which it absolutely _was,_ thank you very much!

She took a deep breath, swinging her arms. Just take the step forward, Bethany. Just take one, then the other, and figure it out from there.

Sister Leliana was not in the main hall, nor in the vestibule, and Bethany couldn't bring herself to ask anyone. What if they told Leliana she'd been looking for? No. Unacceptable. She was here purely on coincidence, following a perfectly routine trip to the market. She just happened to stop by, that was all. And while she was here, she just wanted to let Leliana know that she--she--

She'd think of something when she saw her.

Bethany finally located Sister Leliana in the garden, kneeling in the dirt, humming to herself as she worked. Even her mindless humming was beautiful (though not as beautiful as she herself was--maybe she could tell her that? Wait, no. No, absolutely not. Oh Maker, that was awful. Why had she even _thought_ that?). Bethany had been coming to the Chantry sporadically, to keep up appearances, for as long as they've lived in Lothering, but it wasn't until Sister Leliana had come there that Bethany started to come with any regularity, to listen to her stories. She told _such_ stories, of all sorts of things that surely a Chantry sister ought not to know. Still, Leliana told them, with a certain wicked gleam in her eye that made Bethany desperate to know more. It was a life she would never have, and she hungered for it.

Better even than Leliana's stories were Leliana's songs. Bethany had never heard anyone sing like her, not even Mother. She could listen to her for hours.

Well, now, sister Leliana was going to listen to her. Bethany would clear her throat and get her attention, and look deep into her eyes and say exactly what was on her mind and in her heart.

Leliana's fall of flaming hair shifted slightly as she noticed Bethany's approach. Her foxy face broke into a sunny smile. "Bethy!" Bethany suppressed a childish giggle at the nickname. "It's always so good to see you! How are you doing today?"

Bethany cleared her throat, crossed her arms, took a breath, and said, "Ah--uhm--I--good?"

"Good!"

Bethany cursed herself, then opened her mouth again, this time to say what she really meant. "Actually, what I meant was--"

"Oh, one moment," Leliana said, smiling apologetically. She rose from the dirt, alarmingly reaching for Bethany's hair. Before she could react, Leliana had carefully placed a bloom of crystal grace behind her ear.

"There," she said, admiring her handiwork. "The shade of the flower really brings out the blue in your eyes, don't you think? I've been thinking so all day. Now, I'm so sorry to have interrupted--what was it you were going to say?"

"Nothing," squeaked a bright red Bethany, and fled.

Oh, well, she thought, making her way back home without even a stop at the market. The crystal grace really did bring out the blue in her eyes. She'd wear it the rest of the day and then carefully press it as soon as she could. And she'd come back and tell Leliana how she really felt tomorrow. Or next week, at the latest. But that was the absolute latest!

After all, it wasn't as though she was short on time.


	31. Anders/Isabela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for anon on tumblr

When they were done, there generally wasn't much post-coital cuddling--it wasn't like that, had never been--but this time it was him that drew away first to sit hunched on the edge of the bed.

"I don't think we should do this anymore," Anders said.

Isabela wound a piece of her hair around her finger, lazily tangled alone in the sheets. There was a strand of grey in it, starkly visible against her dark hair. She took a while to reply. "Alright," she said eventually, with the vague suggestion of a shrug. Then, a moment later, "Any reason why?"

He turned his head to glance at her over his shoulder. He looked tired. He'd looked tired for years now, so different from the electric young man she'd known once at the Pearl, but the lines carved under his eyes now were deep as canyons. He had grey in his hair, too, and much more, whole streaks of it, though harder to see. Sometimes it came out by the handful. "You're asking why?" he said, with a note of incredulity. "I thought this was no strings attached."

"It is," she said, sitting up and drawing the sheets around her hips. "Just curious, is all." Was she just curious? She looked within herself and found that, yes, she was curious, but not just--there was some hurt there, too. She couldn't fathom why. It wasn't as though he was the only one, and it wasn't as though he was much of a catch. Sometimes it was practically like they had sex out of habit.

So why did she feel so hurt?

"It's pointless," he said. "There's no future in it."

"There wasn't supposed to be," she said, irritable. "It was supposed to be fun. If you're not having fun, then fine. That's a good enough reason."

"Fun?" He raised an eyebrow. "Really? You find me _fun?"_

She didn't reply. The answer was obvious to everyone in the room. "Oh, what?" she said. "Did you want to marry me or something?" She snorted. "Fat chance of that."

"No," he said at once, and vehemently. "I'm not looking for anything like that. With anyone."

Isabela would die before she would marry again. She'd sworn that the night her husband had been killed. No grand love would convince her otherwise, and what they had was a far cry from a grand love.

It still hurt, somehow. The vehemence. "Well, good," she said. "Good."

The room fell silent. Muffled behind the thin walls of her room, the crash and murmur of the tavern could be heard, orders shouted, arguments had, tankards slammed onto tables. He got up and began to dress, slowly, stiffly. She watched. Might as well--it would be the last time. It wasn't a beautiful body, but it was an interesting one. Long, lean, obviously malnourished, though with some wiry muscle underneath. Big hands, strong hands, though careful. And then there were the scars. Five long ropy welts across the back, a handful of remnants of darkspawn blades, and the big one on his chest, the one that looked so oddly fatal and which he refused to ever discuss. Isabela's own scars were more numerous, though smaller. A dozen knife wounds from a dozen close fights, a nasty burn on her leg from the night she'd come back to Kirkwall, a gash on her thigh from some long-ago sailing accident. Her hands were more calloused, and not as careful. They had bodies that told stories. It was part of what made the sex interesting.

He found his clothes. Thin grey shirt, pants that were mostly patches, boots held together with hope and a tightly knotted rag. He found his coat somewhere in the corner, that awful heavy stinking thing which had had to be dyed black to hide the stains. The dye hadn't made it smell any better, either, not that any amount of laundering would ever rid it of the reek of Darktown.

He sat back down, heavily, coat in hands, staring at it but not at it. "Look," he said eventually, "If it's not fun, and there's no future in it, then what's the point? You know as well as I that there isn't."

Because we're lonely, Isabela thought. Because I'm a thieving snake, and you're a decent person. Because I live in a bar, and you live in the sewers. Because you're tired, and I'm getting old. Because I knew you when you were young, and you knew me. Because you kept me alive after that time I got gutted by that Vashoth, and because I slit that Templar's throat before he could get a smite off. Because we're friends. Because we care about each other.

"You're right," she said. "There really isn't."

He nodded vaguely. "We should never have started," he said. "Not that--I regret it. But you know."

She knew.

Still he didn't put the coat on, yet, lost in some thought far away from her and this room, and there was something there, some finality in his deepset (and so very, very tired) eyes, that drove her to rise from the bed, taking the sheets with her, for it was cold in her room, without the heat of another body, and to stand in front of him, and then kneel down, and firmly take his face in her hands and force him to look at her.

"Anders," she said, enunciating clearly. "Are you going to be alright?"

He looked at her, and then looked away. "I am a healer, aren't I?" he said, which wasn't an answer. And Isabela looked deep within herself, and looked for the will to make him answer it, _really_ answer it, and found she didn't have it.

Instead she took her bandana, the blue one hemmed with gold she'd worn for years now, and tied it firmly around his forearm, around one of the holes in the thin grey shirt. She didn't want it anymore, she told herself. It was fraying at the edges, and some of the bloodstains hadn't quite washed out, and she'd been wanting a new one lately anyway.

He blinked at it, uncomprehending. "What's this?"

A memory, she thought, and didn't dare fathom further. "A promise," she said, "From you, to me, that you're going to take care of yourself."

He nodded, slowly. "Alright."

"Look at me. You promise?"

He looked at her, and said, "I promise."

And she, lying snake that she'd always been, knew it for the lie it was.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This chapter marks the end of Round One. Everyone who requested a ship has now received one. If you have requested a ship but haven't received at least one fill, it's because your request was in my files and then was lost in a phone crash. Now is the time to re-request--you will be re-added to the top of the queue.
> 
> Beyond that, I will be doing a one-chapter Bonus Round, and then moving on to Round Two. Everyone who submitted two or more ships, your second request will be in this round. Anyone who requests their first ship after the Bonus Round will be appended to the end of Round Two.


	32. Merrill/Fenris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well nobody asked for this but youre getting it anyway

It happened to be that the old matchmaker by the name of Hilde came to the house of Minna, the weaver.

Minna had a husband but no children, which was a disappointment but not a deterrent to her relentless mothering. She simply chanced to informally adopt every elven orphan that wandered into her line of sight, and also all of the alienage's outcasts and peripherals, and most of the stray animals. Minna's sister claimed she only did this to feel herself generous and benevolent, to which Minna responded with pointedly inviting her sister and her family over for a sumptuous dinner and sent her home laden with thoughtful gifts, because _that_ would show her.

And so Hilde came to Minna with a proposal, which she spent the entirety of supper talking up before finally divulging it.

"I have a match for that girl Merrill you have been looking after," Hilde said, conspiratorially. Hilde was one of the oldest people in the village and she had more children and grandchildren than anybody else, and was therefore among the most powerful and respected. Some even thought she was rather showing off, offspring-wise.

"Merrill?" Minna said doubtfully. Merrill was a sweet girl, if somewhat absent-minded. And asocial. Minna had to all but drag her out of her little house to get her to participate in community events. "I was thinking it was time she married, but it's hard enough to lure her out of doors. Do you really suppose she'd be amenable to marriage?"

"She will with the fellow I found," Hilde said, a toothless grin spreading over her old face. "He's _rich."_

"Oh?" Minna arched an eyebrow. "A rich elf? And the whole alienage isn't tearing each other to pieces to marry him?"

"Well, he has his peculiarities," Hilde admitted. "He's difficult, sure enough. Truth be told I have been unable thus far to make him a match with anybody else in the alienage."

Minna's doubt grew. "Just how rich is he?"

"He has a mansion in Hightown."

Minna nearly dropped the dish she was carrying. "A mansion in Hightown! If he's that rich it shouldn't matter if he's an old leper who eats live cats! He should have all the young women in town breaking down his door. Just how difficult is he?"

"Decently difficult," said Hilde. "And he's reclusive. Just like our Merrill. And I believe he is Dalish just like our Merrill too--he has those tattoos. Two Dalish ought get along better, don't you think?"

Minna had to admit Hilde had a point. "I shall have to spend some time talking Merrill round."

"Yes, you do that," Hilde said eagerly. "I will begin the process of extraction with the Hightown gentleman. Just think it, Minna. Wealth like that, in _our_ community."

"Two recluses," Minna said slowly. "Dalish, no less. Why, I believe a match might make them both more inclined to sociability, especially when children are on the way. They'll need their community more than ever, then."

"Exactly, exactly, my dear! So it's all decided. It's the perfect match!"

Minna clapped her hands, delighted. "The perfect match!"

\--

"You're going, Fenris, and that's final," Hawke growled.

"Absolutely not," Fenris growled back, and he was better at it. Nobody could growl as well as Fenris, save for perhaps Hawke's mabari, who it could be said had an unfair advantage.

"Oh, no, Hawke, please don't," Merrill fretted. "I only agreed to this so that Minna would leave me alone, I didn't realize it would be with Fenris--"

"Nor did I!" Fenris said. "That old hag was giving me no quarter. I had nearly a whole army at my door, day and night."

Merrill flinched. "Oh, Fenris, please don't call her that, it's so disrespectful..." She trailed off when coming under the full power of Fenris's glare. "A-anyway, I'll just tell Minna that it can't be done, I'm sure she'll understand, it's just that she's been so kind to me when I've been so alone, even if she is a bit pushy. I-I just really hope this won't mean she stops talking to me entirely, she's been so nice about inviting me to dinner all the time, and--and--"

At this point Merrill burst into sniffly tears, Isabela swooped down to comfort her while glaring furiously at Fenris, Varric tutted disapprovingly, and Hawke crossed their arms.

"Now look what you've done," said Hawke.

"I have done nothing," Fenris protested. "Neither of us wish to embark on this--this _date._ It would be a ridiculous farce. I refuse to participate--I have more self-respect than that. And you should too, Merrill."

Merrill just went on sniffling.

"Merrill," Fenris said, weakening. "Merrill, please. Be reasonable." The mounting social pressure was such that he practically didn't even notice that he'd offered her a politeness as serious as a 'please'.

"C'mon, Broody, it's one evening," Varric said. "Would it really kill you?"

"Right," Anders snorted, "It's not as though you're busy. What else would you do with yourself? Drink wine, stare at the corpses in your sitting room, and hate everyone?"

Fenris continued to show admirable restraint by ignoring him.

"Fenris, quit being a prick and just do it," Isabela said, and her narrow eyes over Merrill's head clearly stated, _Or else._

Fenris looked helplessly around the table. He swore, drained his cup of wine, threw it on the table and got up. "Fine! Very well! You have pestered me into it! I shall go on this date, I will hate every moment of it."

"Thank you, Fenris," Merrill said, still watery. "Me too."

"See?" Hawke said, satisfied. "That's all that's required of you."

\--

Fenris came to the alienage shortly before sunset, slightly better-groomed than usual, having been escorted there by one of Hilde's many grandchildren. Varric had insisted on getting him cleaned up, and had been rubbing dirt off his chin with his thumb moments before he left his front door. Varric had even somehow convinced him to leave his armor behind and wear something nice instead. Fenris was cursing the dwarf's silver tongue the entire lengthy walk down to Lowtown.

Merrill answered the door halfway through the second knock, causing Fenris to narrowly avoid knocking on her face. He was startled to find that she actually owned a clean if somewhat aged sundress, and had cleaned all the dried blood out from under her fingernails. "It's one of Minna's," she explained, worrying her fingers and not meeting his eyes.

"Here," he said gruffly, shoving the handful of flowers at her.

"Oh, thank you," she said, startled, taking them. They had retained most of their roots and quite a lot of dirt. "Did you, um, yank these from somebody's yard?"

"No," Fenris said defensively, furtively brushing the dirt of his hands onto the front of his leggings.

"They're very nice," Merrill said charitably, and disappeared back into her house to place them into a pot. Fenris stood on her front step and waited. He sniffed. He scratched his nose. He tried to pretend he couldn't see several of Hilde's grandchildren spying on him. He sniffed again.

Merrill reappeared. "Shall we, er, go?"

"I guess so," he groused. He offered his arm. Merrill stared at it as though it was a poisonous snake.

"She's watching," Fenris said through clenched teeth, so they wouldn't be able to read his lips.

"Oh," Merill mouthed, and reluctantly took his arm.

\--

Hilde's minions shepherded them towards a local bistro. The wooden sign above it was painted with pink rosesbuds and had a name so frou-frou it was embarrassing to repeat.

"Really?" Merrill said doubtfully.

Fenris looked round. Any avenues of escape were blocked by two of Hilde's granddaughters and one of her grandsons. "It seems so."

"This is not at all how the Dalish do it," Merrill muttered.

"Hush," Fenris said, ushering her inside, "They're watching."

"If this was a proper Dalish courting, you would have slain a bear for me beforehand."

"I slew a bear that was about to claw you open on Sundermount last year. Does that count?"

The host, a grandson of Hilde, showed them to a cozy booth in the corner. The wooden chairs were carved in the shape of hearts. A vase with a rose decorated the table. A single pink candlestick provided illumination. One of Hilde's granddaughters came by dressed as a waitress to take their order.

Fenris wondered whether the bistro's original staff had been persuaded to take an evening off or if they were hogtied in the meatlocker.

There was nothing to do but wait for their meals and speak to one another.

Fenris fixed his eyes on a knot in the wood and glowered.

"So," Merrill said, in her best attempt at cheerfulness. "How are...you?"

"I am....well," said Fenris, excruciatingly. "And...yourself?"

"Quite good," Merrill said. "Busy with my mirror, when I'm not out with Hawke. You know."

"Ah yes," Fenris said, "Your demonic blood magic mirror, which will shortly escape your control and unleash horrors unimaginable upon the community you claim to care for."

"I have it quite in hand, actually," Merrill said icily. "And you'd do well to mind your business."

"Oh, would I--" Fenris caught sight of one of the bistro's other patrons, Hilde's red-haired youngest daughter, watching. "Why, yes. I would. Er." He tugged at his collar. "Now what?" he said out of the side of his mouth.

"Compliment me," Merrill suggested in a whisper.

"Right. Yes." Fenris cleared his throat and raised his voice. "You are looking very nice tonight, Merrill."

"Thank you, Fenris," Merrill replied, just as loudly. "Yourself also. Very strong, and er, manly."

"Thank you," Fenris said. "It comes from the years I spent as an enslaved bodyguard to a deranged blood mage."

Merrill smiled tightly. "Oh! Yes, of course."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm only making conversation."

"Well, you're not good at it."

"At least I'm _trying."_

"Maybe the world would be a better place if you tried less."

Merrill's clenched fists came to a rest on the table, causing the candle to rattle slightly. "You know," she said cheerfully, "perhaps you'd be less cross if you removed the stick from your backside. If you ask nicely, I might even be persuaded to remove it for you."

Fenris colored. He settled his own clenched fists on the table slightly more firmly than was necessary. "You stay away from my backside, witch!"

The force from this last was enough to send the already rattled candlestick on the table teetering. The two trained, deadly combatants, both with lightning reflexes, blankly watched the flame flicker as the candlestick fell over, as the candle came loose from its holder and fell over onto the floor, rolled into a stray path of grease which had been spilled from a dish of excessively rich duck and not yet cleaned up, as it promptly ignited it, and proceeded to spread across half the bistro.

They sat glaring at each other amidst the flames as Hilde's grandchildren ran about trying to extinguish the fire with buckets of dirty dishwater.

"Shall we go?" Fenris suggested.

"I believe next on the agenda is a Romantic Walk," Merrill said stiffly, rising.

\--

They were herded along to the location of the Romantic Walk, which began along the moonlit docks. It would have qualified as reasonably romantic if it weren't for all the crime happening. Two people were being robbed and one stabbed in the vicinity. Merrill regarded this with interest as they walked along the docks.

"Don't fall in," Fenris said gruffly. The stabbed individual was screaming somewhere in the distance.

"Maybe I ought to," Merrill mumbled. "Just to escape this evening."

"Maybe you _should,"_ Fenris snapped.

The Romantic Walk proceeded in silence.

Eventually the effort of Hilde's grandchildren lead them to a secluded Hightown garden. The starlight shined sweetly on the roses and the jonquils and the lilies, casting the lush greenery a rare violet hue. Somewhere the strains of sweet music drifted through the garden, likely the work of Hilde's granddaughter who could play the lute.

Fenris and Merrill paused to regard the flowers.

"These are nice," Fenris tried.

"Yes, they are," Merrill agreed. "Is this where you did your pillaging?"

"As though you have the high ground in that regard."

They continued to regard the flowers, now with crossed arms and cross expressions. After a while, they got tired enough to do this while sitting down on a nearby stone bench. The desperate strains of lute continued.

The needlessly optimistic serenade was interrupted when a human noblewoman threw open a door at the end of the path at the garden and let out a shriek. "Just _what_ are these knife-ears doing in _my_ garden! Oh, oh! The male is armed!" She let out another, higher-pitched shriek. "We're being robbed! Guards! _Guards!!!"_

Fenris growled, beginning to draw his sword as a matter of instinct, but Merrill stayed his hand. "It's not worth it," she whispered.

He turned his fury on her, scowling. "Do _you_ feel inclined to having Aveline witness this farce?"

"Not at all," Merrill said smoothly as the noblewoman continued to gibber about knife-eared thieves. Merrill cast a glance her way and snapped her fingers. Suddenly the decorative crawling vines around the mansion's high stone walls came to life and began to wrap around the noblewoman's ankles, who screamed again and attempted to escape into the house, into which the vines followed her with a vengeance.

"Let's go," Merrill said, leaving the noblewoman to her herbaceous fate.

"Go where?" Fenris demanded. "This absurd demonstration is supposed to continue for several more hours."

"The Hanged Man," Merrill said wearily. "We can at least get so drunk we forget most of this happened."

\--

"--and then Hawke said, 'Looks like the duke...has fallen from grace.'"

"What, with the dramatic pause and everything?"

"Yes, you should have seen the look on Aveline's face. And that was _after_ their near 'death' at the party earlier, ooh, it was terrible."

Both elves burst into raucous laughter at the recollection.

Fenris has forewent wine for something stronger, a special brew of Corff's that habitually ate through the floorboards if spilled. Merrill had put away quite a lot of cider and was flushed bright red to show for it. They had both had so much that one might think they were both too drunk to even recognize the other.

"That reminds me of a job I pulled with Isabela." Fenris took another caustic swig and wiped his mouth for the burning. "It all started with these slavers..."

Merrill had another cider as she listened. Fenris found himself impressed despite himself at how quickly such a small woman could consume the stuff.

"...and then Isabela said, 'Sailor? I hardly know 'er! Not that that would stop me.' And then she stabbed him."

Merrill clapped her hands delightedly. "What a wonderful--hic!--story. We have such--hic!--wonderful friends."

In his current state, Fenris had to agree that they almost sort of did. "It's just too bad that they put us through this farce," Fenris said. "The traitors."

"I--hic!--know!" Merrill laughed uncontrollably. "What an absolute--hic!--disaster! I mean, you and me! What was Minna _thinking?"_

"Maker only knows. I think Hilde was thinking of my fabulous mansion. Do you suppose we should tell her it's a derelict full of corpses and broken wine bottles?"

"Oh, nooo--hic!--we can't do that! It'll break her poor old heart! No, we've got too--hic!--we've got to keep up appearances. You're sure we lost her spies?"

"Quite sure," Fenris said. He'd had more than enough experience shaking tails during his time on the run.

"Oh, good," Merill said, settling back into her chair. "I'd hate to--hic!--disappoint her so soon."

"Is that not inevitable, disappointing her with regards to us?" Fenris snorted. "I mean--you and me."

"You and me," Merrill replied, giggling.

"You and me," Fenris repeated through an irrepressible chuckle, and then they were both laughing, and then they were both completely helpless with mirth, banging their fists on the table and spilling their drinks, Fenris with tears in his eyes and Merrill nearly tottering right out of her chair.

It was soon after that that Corff declared that firstly they had had enough and secondly that it was closing time, and sent them out onto the street.

In the sobering cool of the night air, they both found it was not quite sobering enough to allow either of them to walk particularly steadily. They were obliged to swing their lanky arms around each other's thin--and unusually non-spiky in Fenris's case--shoulders and set off tottering towards Merrill's home.

"You and me," Merrill chuckled again, pulling close against the chill.

"You and me," Fenris repeated, bubbling with hilarity at the absurdity of it. "Has there ever been a poorer match?"

"We must consider the very real possibility that there has not," Merrill said, wide-eyed and serious. "We may in fact be the worst match made in the entire history of Thedas."

"Imagine," this time it was Fenris that hiccuped, "imagine us being matched just because we're elves with tattoos. The sheer ignorance sends me reeling."

"Me too," Merrill said. "We could search a lifetime in all the ancient corners of a Wisdom spirits demesne, and never find a more awful, terrible idea than the two of us as a couple."

"We're probably--we're probably the worst couple that will _ever_ exist, in fact."

"Why, Fenris! I think you might be correct! We might have, in fact, made every other couple that will ever exist, or hypothetically _could exist,_ look better, just in comparison to the absolute disaster of a match that we are."

"Even--even with Hawke's embarrassing crush on the Arishok?"

"Even that!"

With that they could no longer restrain themselves, and fell to laughter so extreme that they were both blinded with mirthful tears, and only managed to remain upright by supporting themselves on each other's frames. It was in this lurching manner that they stumbled to the alienage, gripping each other as they cackled with the sheer absurdity of it all. It took Merrill several long minutes, and Fenris's fumbling help, to get her door unlocked.

"Well, this is it," she said, a little more calmly as she wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes, though she couldn't quite rid herself of her grin. "I should really get to sleep."

"And I as well." Fenris blinked, the world reeling around him.

"Oh, Fenris--it's such a long walk back to Hightown, and the streets are so twisty and dangerous, and you without your armor--are you sure you should be walking back alone in this state?"

He focused on her, with difficulty, and poked her in the chest. "I--am always sure--of everything, that I ever do." With that, he went limp, and collapsed forward into her arms.

"Oh, well, if you're certain then," Merrill said, bearing up under his weight. "Who am I to tell you what to do? Your wife?"

This caused a fresh bought of uncontrollable laughter. They managed to stumble inside and get the door closed and locked, and summarily collapsed right on Merrill's moth-eaten rug in a pile of limbs.

"You and me," Fenris mumbled into Merrill's collarbone, too intoxicated to extract himself. "What...a ridiculous farce..."

"The _most_ ridiculous," Merrill mumbled into his hair. "The absolute--most ridiculous thing--that anyone, ever, has heard of...without...a doubt..." She trailed off, already asleep, and there they remained until well past noon the following day.

\--

It was nearly dawn when Hilde, summoned from her bed, finished receiving the report from her numerous underlings, that is to say, offspring.

She nodded thoughtfully, and returned to bed satisifed at a job well done, anticipating relating to Minna the excellent news. It seemed that her plan had gone off without a hitch after all, risky though it was.

After all, being discovered in a tangle like that the next morning, they would have simply no choice but to get married.


	33. Sigrun/Velanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for jaspxr on tumblr

The bushes rustled. Sigrun froze, staring over her shoulder with wide eyes. She sat back on her haunches in the dirt, brushing her hands on her trousers.

"Velanna?" she called out uncertainly. "If you're bringing the bushes to life, can you pick some other bushes, please? Because--"

"I am not bringing the bushes to life," came Velanna's indignant voice from the bushes.

"Oh," said Sigrun, slightly disappointed despite herself. "Then what are you doing in the--?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Velanna cut her off. "Are you sniffing dirt again?"

"No!" Sigrun said. It was mostly true. "I'm gardening."

Velanna boggled. "Is _that_ what you're doing?"

Sigrun laughed. "Of course it's what I'm doing. The Warden-Commander gave me this little patch, see? I'm going to grow things in it."

Velanna looked unconvinced. "Really? Gardening? You're sure? You're not trying to take revenge on this patch of dirt? Or make an unusual piece of outdoor art?"

Sigrun glanced around at her patch of earth. It was rather haphazardly dug up, with seedlings sticking out of the ground at odd angles and in uneven rows. "Well," she admitted, "I'm not very good at it yet."

"But I'm learning," she tacked on earnestly.

Velanna just stood there with her arms crossed.

"So," said Sigrun, "what _were_ you doing in the bushes? Were you watching me?"

Velanna sniffed. "Certainly not! I was merely curious as to what heinous thing you were inflicting on this innocent plot of land."

"But not by watching me."

"That's right."

Sigrun pushed a locked of hair behind her ear, trying to rub some sweat off her forehead and only succeeded in depositing additional dirt. "Then maybe you could help me? I mean, you know about plants, right?"

"Oh, so just because I'm an elf, I'm supposed to be in tune with nature?"

"Of course not," said Sigrun. "The Warden-Commander is an elf and all she knows about nature is that she doesn't trust it and is willing to cut it down if it starts moving around too much. But you have those vine things, and the trees are your friends, so I thought maybe..."

"The _trees_ are not my friends, what I do is I summon spirits into the trees and--oh, nevermind."

"So will you help?"

Velanna sputtered. "Absolutely not! I won't be reduced to a horticultural consultant!"

Sigrun shrugged, smiling. "Alrighty, then."

She went back to her gardening, digging hole after messy hole, planting seedling after lopsided seedling. Velanna remained standing there, arms cross, expression moreso. Sigrun began to hum a little tune as she worked.

"What I don't understand," said Velanna when some time had passed, "is why you're bothering."

"What do you mean?"

"You're always going on about how you're a dead woman, aren't you?" Velanna spoke it like an accusation. "It's all, fatalism this, doom that, with you. It drives me crazy. It's like you've given up. Why?"

"What does this have to do with gardening?"

Velanna jabbed a finger at the seedlings. "Crystal Grace takes well over a decade to bloom, even as a seedling, and you're always acting like you're going to go merrily to your death within the fortnight. You're wasting your time."

Sigrun paused, digging another hole and not meeting Velanna's gaze. "I guess," she said, "it's nice to know that I'll leave something beautiful behind, when I'm gone. Someone will get to see the blooms, even if I don't. Isn't that the whole point of being a Warden?"

She went back to her work. Velanna watched her a while longer, and then finally, slowly, stepped forward and sat in the dirt next to her.

"Here," she said gruffly, picking up an extra hoe from a metal bucket. "Dig them like _this,_ at an angle. Then pack the dirt in loosely so the roots have plenty of room to spread. And then you can take some gravel and put it over top, for stability. See? Here, let's just redo all of these. They'll die within the month if you leave them like this."

Velanna stolidly avoided meeting her eyes, which would surely have been set in some intolerable expression of gratitude. It would have been too much. She would have had to flee immediately.

They replaced the rest of the seedlings in relative silence, kneeling and intent together.

"The only thing is," Velanna said, when they were done, "is you can't just leave Crystal Grace alone and expect it to grow well. It's a demanding plant. That's why you see it so rarely. You'll have to check back every week to make sure they're doing well. Without regular attention, they'll just whither. Got it?"

Sigrun nodded. "Got it."

"And really, it's a bad idea to only plant flowers like these. You'll want a variety of things, to make sure the soil is healthy. And Crystal Grace prefers partial shade in its mature stages, so you should really find a nice young sapling and place it right _there,_ where it can give fruit and provide shade. Of course, a sapling needs quite a lot of attention, in climate and soil like this. Otherwise, you're just wasting your time."

Sigrun kept nodding right along.

"Maybe an apple tree," Velanna went on. "Those can get quite big if you let them."

"Thanks, Velanna."

Velanna had been looking out onto the plot, the faintest edge of a smile on her lips, but now she turned a stern gaze directly on Sigrun. "But you have to keep coming back!" she said. "For years, probably. Lots of them. Don't think I'll do it for you, because I won't! It's your garden, so it's your responsibility."

"Of course," said Sigrun, gently taking her by the arm and leading her towards the Keep. "Dinner is soon, isn't it?"

"I want a promise, Sigrun."

"Alright, I promise."

"I don't want to be saddled with this little project of yours."

"You have my word."

"But do I?"

"You do."

Velanna sniffed, but did not extricate herself. "Then if you're not intending on smelling it, l suggest we get some of this dirt off before dinner."


End file.
